The Dark Wars: Empire's War
by Marquis Black
Summary: Final in Series. Elizabeth is Crowned, the Empire has returned. But on the heels of its glorious return, the Death Eaters prepare a plan to destroy the British Empire once and for all. And who is the mysterious figure looming on the horizon? AU
1. Prologue: Vengeance

_AN: Well, I'm back. After a harrowing second semester at university (including my aunt getting diagnosed with breast cancer and my mum suffering dengue fever), I've managed to get the inspiration to finish this story. Never fear, the last installment, whose name is still undecided upon, will also be written, but as of right now, nothing has been written down for it._

_However, since I've kept you all waiting for so long, I will be posting Chapter I tomorrow. For now, this is just the prologue._

_Enjoy._

_- Marquis Black_

* * *

_One Day Later…_

The populace of Harrisburg, and visitors from all around the small archipelago arrived for that they knew would be the first instance of Imperial Law being delivered. Somehow, even the weather seemed to realize the gravity of the day, for the skies were entirely covered with the grey masses of clouds.

In the Central Square, at the foot of Coronation Hill, stood a single, wide wooden gallows. Leading up to the gallows was a long line of prisoners, chained one to the other, leading all the way back to the docks, where the prison ship had unloaded them.

On top of a balcony overlooking the square sat Elizabeth, with Harry standing beside her in full uniform. To her other side was Prime Minister Lee (sitting), and the newly-appointed Opposition Leader, Saul French (also sitting), as well as Supreme Court Judge Beckett. All of them watched grimly as the prisoners were escorted under close supervision by Imperial Guards. All of them also knew that the execution was being televised to the rest of the world.

Mostly, however, the Guards' presence was to protect the prisoners on their way to their deaths, as the populace had taken to throwing heavy, solid objects, fruits, and vegetables at the prisoners, all of whom seem terrified at their fate.

None of them would survive, they realized with horror as they saw the gallows. And indeed none would, for they were all survivors of the raid on the prison in Salt Lake City. Thus, they had all, one way or another, partook in deflowering and spoiling the Queen.

Slowly, the procession made their way up the streets towards the gallows. Finally, when they arrived at the foot of the steps leading up, four more soldiers arrived and unshackled the first five while Neville, dressed in full uniform, stood to the side and addressed the people, reading from a scroll, with Susan next to him with her wand out.

"Hark ye, People of the Free Empire of Great Britain!" he called out, his voice magnified by the wand Susan was pointing at his throat while he read. "Today we do celebrate the swift retribution of Law and Order upon those Villains most Evil, who dared impose themselves in a manner most atrocious on our beloved Queen Elizabeth III, long may she reign."

Solemn calls of "Long may she reign," answered him.

Neville nonetheless continued as if he'd heard nothing. "The following charges have been brought up in a Just Court of Law and a verdict has passed," he announced as the first five prisoners were led up the stairs towards the gallows. All five were brought before their own noose and the executioner secured each before returning to the lever.

"On the charge of High Treason," announced Neville. "Guilty."

A swinging sound heralded the opening of the trap doors, causing all five prisoners to fall shortly before suddenly stopping, most of them dying instantly due to their necks breaking.

All five were pulled out of their nooses and summarily tossed into an awaiting cart. The next five were brought up, featuring the first woman in the column of prisoners. The woman was truly only about 17 years old, but had been found torturing some of the lower-importance prisoners.

"On the charge of conspiracy to commit regicide….Guilty"

Once again, the trap doors opened and the prisoners died either from suffocation or a broken neck. Five more were brought up.

"On the charge of murder with genocidal intent….Guilty"

_Swing_

"On the charge of wilful murder…Guilty"

_Swing_

"On the charge of attempted murder…Guilty"

_Swing_

"On the charge of illicit sexual assault…Guilty"

_Swing_

"On the charge of torture with malicious intent…Guilty"

_Swing_

"On the charge of conspiracy to commit systematic genocide…Guilty"

_Swing_

"On the charge of aiding and abetting the former crimes….Guilty"

_Swing_

"On the charge of regicide…Guilty"

_Swing_

And so the execution went, until nearly one hundred and forty people met their end at the gallows. The entire thing was televised, and the message of the executions was clear.

The Empire's retribution against its enemies would be swift and cruel.

No mercy.

To anyone.

* * *

The Queen watched, emotionlessly, as her captors were, one by one, pretty much dragged to their death, kicking and screaming all the while. Her face was completely stony—not a single flicker of emotion got past the mask she had put up. Even the Duke of Halifax, who had suffered nothing at the hands of these particular…monsters looked vindictively pleased at the executions.

But for Elizabeth, there was nothing. No satisfaction, no anger. There was no sadness, or pity. There was only fiery, raging vengeance. It was all that consumed her heart and mind at the moment. She had personally pushed for this particular method of execution, wanting to see her captors hang in the air—to watch their terror-stricken faces as they realized that they would choke to death. She found no pleasure in it—no happiness. She didn't even feel satisfied when the executions were finally over. All she could think of was that there were more of them out there. More Death Eaters raping and killing little girls and young women—more Death Eaters who were responsible for the ever-increasing number of orphans.

She wanted them all dead. She wanted them all to suffer.

She knew that the darkness of her heart would consume her—that it would poison her mind if she was not careful. But right now, watching her tormentors, her rapists and their helpers all die, she could not bring herself to care. All she knew was that she desired every last Death Eater dead. She would never grant clemency to any of them.

She had initially felt apprehension in taking the role of Queen, but after seeing the amount of satisfaction she felt with every passing Death Eater casualty, she had felt renewed in her purpose. She now latched onto her role with a passion. She wanted all of them to die. Every last one of them. Death Eaters and their allies alike. Even those who had abandoned them to the mercy of these murdering bastards would pay.

No mercy.

To anyone.

* * *

For his part, Harry was looking at the Queen from the corner of his eye worriedly. He saw in her eyes the darkness her face did not show. He knew the effects that such unbridled hatred and lust for vengeance could take on the human mind. After all, he suffered through it daily. The Queen was merely another notch on an increasing list of officers, soldiers, and civilians who were being consumed by their desire for vengeance.

Still, it worried Harry. Would this mentality hinder her ability to perform her duties? Could she rule justly, seeing as how she would rather hang Death Eaters and collaborators than strike a deal with them? Not that Harry ever would even _consider_ such an idea, but he had to admit that there were a few Death Eaters who could be intimidated into providing information. The Intelligence Service he'd created after founding Harrisburg was particularly adept at that.

Giving a cruel smile as Harry heard yet another set of trap doors suddenly fall through, causing more Death Eaters to hang by their necks painfully, Harry turned his thoughts back to the executions before him. Yes, the Queen's predicament could be dangerous. Yes, it could become a problem for him in the future.

But for now, all he wanted to do was to see the men who'd helped kill his family die. Unknowingly, Harry's thoughts mirrored Elizabeth's in this way.

No mercy.

To anyone.


	2. Chapter I: Departure

_AN: As promised, the next chapter._

_However, as I forgot to mention this in the previous AN, I shall do this now. Empire's War was initially meant to be **much** longer than it will be (about 65,000 words). However, due to both time constraints, and the need to keep the plot on focus, I had to cut away **a****lot** of character development chapters and events. What I've decided to do, therefore, is to post, as separate stories, one-shots that deal with several events and character building stories that occur within the Empire's War timeline. Hopefully, you shan't be too miffed at this move on my part. Also, the Little Duke (my assistant, for those who are just beginning to read the series) says hello._

_Cheers,_

_- Marquis Black_

* * *

  


_Harrisburg International Airfield, Two Months Later…_

Harry sighed as he watched two soldiers carry off his luggage into the awaiting transport shuttle. The time had come for the Queen to make her world tour, and she'd insisted that he, as the Head of the Armed Forces, accompany her. In fact, the whole damn cabinet had insisted.

Harry made a mental note to hurt them later.

Still, he reasoned, it couldn't be _that_ bad. Staples and Sulu, for instance, were staying behind and taking over the combined Imperial forces while Harry was gone, and he knew that, despite his own animosity towards Staples, the two would perform exceedingly well if they managed not to kill each other.

Looking towards the gate entrance, Harry could see the red-robed and helmeted Imperial Guards escorting the Queen into the shuttle. Far more imposing than the Guards, however, were their weapons: Magic-enhanced scarab-pikes. A single slash of them would cause massive wounds from both their serrated edges and their _Sectusempra_-imbued blades, which would double any physical damage.

"Halifax!" Harry snapped his head towards the booth behind him. There stood Lee, the Prime Minister of the Empire.

"Allen, what can I do for you?" asked Harry pleasantly.

Allen nodded courteously as he approached. "I'm here because Admiral Staples and Major General Sulu told me to personally come to you with this," he handed over a sealed manila envelope, "before you left. I have no idea what it's all about, but here's to you having a safe and pleasant journey," he told him fervently.

Harry smiled and shook the man's hand before turning and leaving towards the gate. Once inside the shuttle, he took his seat in front of the Queen, who was currently looking outside the window somewhat sadly.

"We'll only be gone for a few days, Your Majesty," he assured her calmly as he kept his eyes on the manila envelope.

"Still, I miss it already," she replied, temporarily forgetting to use the Royal third person. "Odd, isn't it? It's not even the place I was born in."

"It's not weird at all, Your Majesty. These people, and the people of the rest of the Empire, were the first to ever truly accept you for who you are, after your parents. Here, not only are you an equal to them, you're superior."

"Only in name," she noted.

"A name is enough to move an entire empire," Harry riposted calmly as he took out a hidden knife from his sleeve and sliced open the manila envelope, which he'd been gazing at curiously for the past five minutes.

He calmly drew out the papers inside and slowly began reading them. Harry frowned as he reached the second page and began leafing through them, reading bits and pieces here and there.

"Bad news?"

"Can't say," grunted Harry as he reached the fifth page. "From what I'm gathering, O'Connor and McDonald have been up to something…but we can't tell what exactly."

"How so?"

Harry sighed as he leafed through the report. "O'Connor's Mexican Fleet has moved out of its normal patrol route, as has his Bahamas Fleet. Unfortunately, they've gone into an area where our scanners can't read. Similarly, McDonald's Biscay Fleet has gone missing."

"The correlation between all of them being…?"

Harry frowned before raising an eyebrow at Elizabeth. "They're all the closest they have to New Britannia. Surely, you're not suggesting what I think you are, Your Majesty?"

Elizabeth shrugged, absently noting the fact that the plane was moving. "It's a possibility, you have to admit."

Harry looked uncomfortable with the suggestion. "Still, treason is a very serious accusation, Your Majesty."

"Technically, it's not treason, though, is it?" riposted Elizabeth. "After all, they never swore allegiance to our person."

"A convenient loophole," acceded Harry reluctantly. "But they want the Death Eaters as dead as we do."

"Do they? You said they love their freedom above all, no? Then it would stand that they would go against both and, as pirates, they have the men and freedom of movement necessary to become true pirates."

Harry slowly nodded, disappointed at himself for not making that argument. "I will relay appropriate orders, Your Majesty, as soon as we land," he told her deferentially.

Elizabeth nodded, somewhat pleased at having gotten one over Harry. "We still need two Lords, however," she noted.

"My Queen?"

"Well, there were five of you, no? One for each region of power?" Harry nodded. "Well then, it stands that we need two to replace our most ungrateful and rebellious subjects."

"Well, with Parliament back, I don't think…"

"Parliament is all good and well, Halifax, but having a Lord, even if nominally, will increase the regional respect for Imperial authority. That was a flaw we had in previous administrations."

Harry cocked an eyebrow at her judgement. "I see your lessons have been useful, Your Majesty."

Elizabeth blushed prettily at being caught in the act. "Yes, they have. We now understand things more clearly."

Harry nodded silently as he made himself comfortable in his seat. They had a six-hour long flight, after all. "If you don't mind, Your Majesty, I think I'll be taking a nap now."

"What about the Irish?"

Harry's eyes shot open at the unusual question. "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?" he asked.

Elizabeth had been pondering her question since she'd been crowned. What about the Irish? She knew that the British Isles were under Death Eater occupation, but the Irish had managed to establish several colonies in Europe, and all were clamouring for the return of their homeland.

"What about the Irish, Halifax?" she repeated. "Should we not visit them as well and try to recruit them to the cause?"

Harry shifted uneasily. "My Queen, the Irish and us do not have a very…amicable history."

"True, but the mistakes of the past can be rectified."

"Your Majesty, they were considered third-class citizens for most of their time in the Empire."

"Things change."

"Perhaps, but they have a history of Republicanism," and he said the word with disgust, "which leads me to believe that any approach we make might be shunned."

"Not if we offer them equal status within the Empire."

Harry looked sceptical, but seeing the Queen's determined look, gave in. "I shall arrange the visit, Your Majesty."

Elizabeth nodded contently before settling into her seat as well. "Good. We think we shall enjoy that nap you suggested now, Halifax."

Mumbling to himself, Harry dipped his head deferentially before emulating the Queen.

Soon, both were fast asleep.

* * *

_Japan_

Harry was the first of the two to wake up as the pilot called him through the intercom to let him know they were arriving. Sending back confirmation, Harry unbuckled himself and got up to stretch. Looking down at his attire, he was mildly irritated by the fact that his uniform was crumpled up—something he quickly fixed with a dry-pressing charm.

Satisfied at his appearance, he now turned towards the Queen and, with a slight touch on the arm, shook her gently awake.

Groggily, Elizabeth woke up to find Harry looking at her quite amused. "What?" she asked sleepily. She felt her eyes closing ever so slightly, too, as she asked her question.

"Your Majesty," Harry started, though Elizabeth swore he was trying to hold back from laughing.

"You're drooling."

That did it.

Elizabeth's eyes shot wide open as she closed her mouth and wiped her drool with a nearby napkin. Glaring at the smiling Harry, Elizabeth huffed as she crossed her arms, once again reminding Harry that his Queen was merely fifteen years old.

Shaking his head in amusement, Harry cast the same pressing charm on her clothes, straightening them up once more. Elizabeth glanced down at her dress and back up at Harry before nodding gratefully.

"The pilot said we'd be arriving soon," he told her as he sat back down. Elizabeth nodded.

"When's the meeting with the Emperor?" asked Elizabeth.

"Tomorrow, Majesty. It's only a courtesy call, really, so we won't be there more than a day."

Elizabeth seemed somewhat disappointed at this but nodded all the same.

"Don't worry, Your Majesty," reassured Harry, "I'm sure that we can fit in some sight-seeing when we're not in meetings."

Elizabeth beamed at him, making Harry chuckle as he turned away and looked out the window. He could see the Lambda Fighters escorting their shuttle and, down below, he could see the ocean water recede as it made way for the Japanese mainland.

"We're nearly there, Your Majesty," announced Harry as he sat down and buckled up.

Elizabeth nodded eagerly and looked out of the window, giddy at being able to travel for the first time (she didn't count her abduction or rescue).

Soon after, the shuttle landed and Harry was hard-pressed trying to keep the excited Queen in her chair without having to resort to physical restraint or magical restraining spells.

Shortly after touching ground, a small bulb on the panel above Harry's seat began to flash from red to green, indicating that they could now disembark. Nodding to Elizabeth, Harry got up and headed over to the door, wand ready to shoot out if anyone hostile tried to attack Elizabeth while they came down the ramp.

To his surprise, however, music began to blare as he reached the top of the ramp. He easily recognized the tune, too. It was Rule Britannia. To his pleasant surprise, the band was playing it very well, and in a distinctly martial and marching interpretation.

Walking down the ramp, he gradually came into view of the greeting party outside. Three men, all in very formal suits, were bowing to him as he made his way down, as was a young woman whom Harry assumed would be the interpreter. To either side of the party was a line of Japanese soldiers that led all the way up to a jet black limousine. Behind the line on the right, Harry saw the orchestra playing. Bowing back to the greeters, Harry took out his communicator and gave the all-clear.

Shortly afterwards, Elizabeth walked down the ramp, and the greeting party bowed even lower as the soldiers raised their rifles in salute.

Walking towards the greeters, Harry acknowledged their bow with his own, while Elizabeth dipped her head in greeting.

The leader of the party began to speak rapid Japanese, and Harry allowed his eyes to wander to the translator girl.

"The Honourable Prime Minister welcomes you to Japan, honoured guests," she translated fluently, "and hopes you will enjoy your stay in the land of the Rising Sun."


	3. Interlude: Wander, My Friends

"An assegai has been thrust into the belly of the nation. There are not enough tears to mourn for the dead." – King Cetewayo, Battle of Isandlwana. January 22, 1879.

* * *

_Rat. Tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat. Rat. Tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat._

The drums sounded somberly as the parade of red-coated instrument players filed down the main road of Harrisburg, the population of the island nation lining on the side of the streets as the somber procession made its way towards Coronation Hill, where the event of the day was to occur.

Behind the drummers came the fifes, all of whom had their instruments under their arms, not wishing to break the somber mood with their dulcet tones. Behind _them_ came the brass, then the bagpipes—all silent.

A fitting mood for a burial.

The people on the sides wept as a carriage passed them by, holding a single black coffin. Most were silent, but a sob could be heard here and there as members of the dead man's crew's families were forced to remember the events that had led to this procession.

Today, they celebrated the greatest naval hero of their time, Jeremy Hawke.

Flowers were silently tossed at the feet of the carriage as it moved passed in homage to the man that had saved countless lives by sacrificing his own, and had performed a monumental part in restoring the Throne. Lilacs, daisies, and roses all fell softly onto the ground as the guards on either side of the carriage did their best not to trod on them.

The crying and heartache reached its highest level, however, when they reached the area populated mainly by the Air Fleet Academy cadets. All of the young men and women on the sidelines began weeping openly as their hero, the brilliant Jeremy Hawke, was towed, _in absentia_, towards his final resting place.

Where the Armed Forces had the Iron Duke; the Army, Sulu; and the Navy, Staples, Hawke had been the iconic hero of the Imperial Air Fleet. An excellent tactician with undying devotion to the Empire, he had given himself a grand ending, worthy of the legends of old.

In the distance, the rest of the onlookers could even make out the faint tones of "Amazing Grace" being played at the Air Fleet Academy, where the rest of the students had to remain, simply because they would have jammed the streets with their full numbers.

And then, on top of Coronation Hill, in front of the massive, gothic Cathedral, stood the final delegation that would carry the defunct Admiral's coffin to its final resting place inside the church. Of them, only one was a world-wide hero—Harry James Potter, the Duke of Halifax. The other three pall bearers were Colonels Richard Sharpe and John Wolfe (both of whom had participated in the rescue that had culminated with Hawke's imbedding into the Northern Loyalist British Forces), and Admiral Alexander Wolf, who had been in command of the _Purity_ (then refitted into the _HMIS Redemption_, which was to be Hawke's flagship thereafter) at the time of the rescue. All four men had been Hawke's contemporaries—his comrades since practically the beginning of the post-coup war.

Harry, in particular, had counted Hawke as amongst his closest confidantes. Of the four men waiting for the jet-black coffin, he was perhaps the most troubled and distraught of them. He had now lost his wife, his family, and one of his best friends. Yet still he ploughed on, determined to finish his mission before resting himself.

Fondly, he could still remember how he had met Hawke, during the man's rescue.

* * *

_Five years ago…_

The bridge of the _Retaliation_ was alit with activity as the alarm klaxons were ringing loudly. Men and women were running to and fro, gathering and delivering documents, or consulting with other technicians as the three-ship Imperial fleet received communications from around the western hemisphere, most of them distress calls. Even now, they had confirmed at least 50 different hidden British military enclaves, all of whom had attempted to hail the Retaliation for a good few weeks, but to no avail.

At the center of the bridge, Harry was currently trying to direct the madness around him in an orderly fashion. Even so, it was a trying task, as the organization of relief efforts also had to be slowed down due in part to the heavy necessity of repairing the _Retaliation_ and the newly-christened _Redemption_, under Alexander Wolf's command.

Two weeks had passed since the ambush over Canada, and the fall of Britain. The crew of all three ships was tired, demoralized, and struggling, and yet they did their best to keep themselves as ready for action as they could—only hanging on by a bare thread.

That thread, of course, was their commander, Harry James Potter. After nearly a month of isolation, the dark-haired prodigy had stepped out of his bunk and had begun taking active control again. Captain Wolf had been more than glad to hand over command to Harry again.

Thus far, however, the small enclaves they _had_ found were rather small—some of them holding no more than 50 men and women. However, occasionally, they would stumble across a big one, and thus acquired about 100 to 200 crewmen in one go, which they all considered a good day, even if the refugees brought on board were mere civilians—the fleet needed their labour, after all. There were ships to repair.

However, today the situation was a bit different. The latest transmission had gotten the bridge of the _Retaliation_ into a frenzy.

"_Five thousand_?" asked Wolf, jaw slackened by his surprise. The highest-ranking officers of the fleet had all met on board the _Retaliation_ in the conference room, and had just been informed by Harry of their discovery.

"Only two thousand are servicemen, however," noted Harry.

Wolfe, for his part, whistled appreciatively, as Sharpe nodded. "We could field a small army with that," noted the Scotsman.

"Or crew our fleet more adequately," interjected Matthew Pollick, the captain of the _Assaye_. "We're still woefully short of manpower to crew the three ships at full efficiency," he reminded the group.

"We are running out of space, however," interjected Wolf, who had, by now, regained his senses. At his side, his XO, a woman who looked to be in her 40s, nodded. "Once the _Redemption_ becomes fully manned, we will have nowhere to hold any more refugees."

"The Captain is correct," added the XO. "Storage capacity in all three ships is near seventy-five percent. If the _Redemption_ becomes fully manned, that will increase into a general ninety-seven percent storage capacity filled. The remaining three percent we need for ammunition and spare parts."

"Well, we can't just leave our comrades!" protested Sharpe. "We need to help whoever we can find that's left of the Empire!"

"And keep them where, Richard? Feed them what?" challenged Wolf. "Our own supplies and living space are shrinking exponentially! This mission was supposed to be a _test run_, _not_ a bloody campaign!"

At the head of the long table, Harry was sighing in frustration as his subordinates kept arguing amongst themselves. He, too, was feeling unnerved by how thin the string they held onto was. Their supplies, as they stood, would hold out for no more than a week or two (if rationed), and they _needed_ to land somewhere to finish up the repairs on all three ships.

His chair looking to the left of the table, he tapped his fingers absently on the table to his right, his eyes on the glass pane window in front of him, his thoughts on the situation at hand. He _had _to come up with a solution. Quickly. Or else suffer a massive defeat the moment the Death Eaters rebuilt their fleet (which they no doubt would, once they heard of Harry's victory).

Five minutes after he began his contemplation, his subordinates were still going at it, arguing back and forth on logistics.

"We simply _cannot_ afford to keep picking up refugees indiscriminately!" argued Wolf as he slammed his open palm on the ebony table. "We risk starving our own selves into submission!"

"They are our _compatriots!_" countered Sharpe fiercely. "Abandoning them—all that's left of Britain—is _treason!_"

"What of feeding them?"

"So we raid some more farms, government depots!"

"You think those won't be protected?"

"Well, if you've a better idea, I'd love to hear it!"

"Now listen here—"

"Enough"

The whole officer corps turned their heads to see Harry still looking out the window, but his tapping had stopped. Instead, he looked resignedly resolute.

"We will be rescuing the garrison," he declared quietly, eliciting sighs of relief from Sharpe and Wolfe. "However, we cannot allow this situation to repeat itself," he then added. "So we will be putting finding a new base at the top of our priorities once the rescue is complete. Look for small, easily overlooked tracts of lands or islands. Anywhere where we could hide a small base."

"Sir, our fleet itself will require at least twenty times the size of land that you're requesting," noted Wolf.

Harry nodded. "Indeed. Which is why I want you to look for small places. We will be making them bigger artificially, and we can use what Shielders we have left to help increase the size of the total area through magical means," explained the 18-year old as he steepled his hands in front of him. "You have your orders, gentlemen. Get to them."

A muted mass click of the heels and a prim salute was the answer Harry got before the officers lined out of the room, leaving Harry alone. To himself, he wondered if he'd made the right choice, which annoyed him greatly. Before the coup, he was used to carrying out his plans without second thought, but now that they stood on the brink of oblivion, he couldn't help it but question himself at every turn, each time unleashing upon himself a torrent of self-hatred for having left his family behind.

And yet, he never once cried.

He couldn't understand it himself, but Harry had not cried once in the near-month he had isolated himself from his fleet. All he had done was stare blankly at the pictures on his wall of his family, or at the picture of his wife on his nightstand, her carefree smile as she silently yelled "I love you!" being all the comfort he received every night as he went to bed. He'd come close, however, but the tears never really reached his eyes.

To him, it was worse than crying. To him, it meant he had died inside.

* * *

_Present Day_

Harry sighed as he watched the coffin be rolled up the hill towards him and his fellow pallbearers. All four of them had grim looks on their faces, but none matched the sheer heartbreak reflected in Harry's eyes. Not even Wolf, who had come to respect the man above all else thanks to Hawke's actions during the rescue.

* * *

_Five Years Ago_

"Incoming transmission from the base, Captain!" declared one of the crewmen. "They have come under siege, and are experiencing heavy enemy assaults on all fronts!"

"Damnit!" Wolf cursed loudly, Harry standing nearby, an amused look on his face at the man's reaction. "This was supposed to be quick and easy!"

"It's never quick and easy, Wolf—you know that," chided Harry as he kept his eyes on the map before him. Pointing at the centre of the base, Harry spoke up. "We need to launch all available ground forces to this point here. Have the transports drop our men, ferry the refugees on board, then come back for our lads."

Sharpe and Wolfe nodded before quickly leaving the bridge, as they were supposed to lead the assault. Harry then turned to Wolf. "I'll be heading down as well. It's your fleet for now, Captain," he said before leaving, leaving no time for Wolf to argue.

Minutes later, Wolf was given a report that the transports had left, Harry on board, much to the captain's chagrin. His superior officer sadly had all the impetuousness of a typical teenager, but also all the brilliance of a man twice Wolf's age. As such, the older man had little choice but to listen to his intellectual superior.

In the transport itself, Harry was at the fore front of the group, right by the boarding ramp, which made his group quite nervous, as they feared being "the guys who let the CO die." Harry, however, seemed untroubled as he waited patiently for the notice to arrive that they were ready to disembark.

The ride itself was smooth, as the Death Eaters failed to expect the arrival of the massive Airships, or the deployment of reinforcements. As such, when they touched base in the middle of the Imperial base, they had their transports and reinforcements intact.

Being the first off the ship, Harry calmly descended onto firm ground as an aide, dressed in an Imperial soldier's redcoat, ran up to him and shook his hand energetically.

"Oh, thank the Lord!" exclaimed the relieved man. "We never thought anyone would hear our call!"

Harry smiled at the man but quickly put a soothing hand on the man's shoulder. "Easy, man, easy. Quickly now, tell me what's going on," he urged the soldier as the rest of his men disembarked.

The man gulped and nodded frantically. "Y-Yes, sir! The northern gate," he pointed, "is holding on, but we're quickly running out of ammunition, sir!"

Harry nodded and signaled for a company of his men to reinforce the north gate, which a quick shout and response dispatched forthwith. "And?" he then asked.

"Well, the Eastern and Western gates are holding out well enough, sir, but the Southern one is getting the bigger part of the beating, if you don't mind me saying, sir," commented the soldier.

Harry once again nodded and sent the majority of his remaining men towards the southern gate. "Excellent, soldier. Now listen to me, " he urged the man intently. Once he was sure he had the man's unwavering attention, Harry continued. "I want you to round up the civilian refugees who aren't fighting and get them onto the transports immediately. My men and I will cover your retreat."

A shaking nod was all the reply that Harry got before the man hugged Harry for all he was worth and wept in relief. "T-Thank you, sir!"

Harry chuckled slightly, but patted the man on the back nonetheless. "Don't mention it, soldier. Now, quickly then. Off with you!"

Harry shook his head in amusement as the man ran off, leaving him alone with his personal detachment of a single company.

"Right then," he told his men as he put on his white gloves. "To the North Gate, men," he ordered them. One sergeant looked confused at this.

"But…sir," he protested weakly, catching Harry's attention, while his men's breath hitched sharply. "Isn't the main brunt on the South Gate?"

Harry smiled a bit patronizingly at the man. "It's a distraction, lads," he told them calmly as he unsheathed his sword—a splendid cavalry saber. "They've given the South the apparent brunt of the attack, but the North fares worse than the South? They're distracting the forces while the main element of the attack moves under the cover of the enemy army towards the North. Probably in groups of no more than ten, in order to not raise suspicions."

Harry took a few practice swings and spun his blade easily in both hands, astounding his men with his level of skill. Harry, however, seemed highly amused by their reaction. "I'm not the best, lads," he told them jocularly. "So don't think I am."

Taking one last swing, Harry nodded firmly at his men, his expression suddenly serious. "Right then. Let's go, lads!" he told them before taking off at a run. His men right behind him, Harry gave them one look before letting an excited look creep onto his face.

This was his darkness. His evil side.

Harry loved to fight. He relished the adrenaline one got from combat.

Killing was not part of it. It was the simple contest of skill between two persons that got Harry off. He loved to cross blades with people potentially superior to him, if only because the challenge made it even more worth it.

So it was with great confusion, then, when he found a kindred soul leading the fighting at the North Gate.

Dressed in a tattered Imperial Navy blue coat, the leader of the Gate's defenders was practically at the front of the fighting, his blood-soaked saber high in the air as he urged his men on against the rapidly mounting attack. A serious, encouraging look on his face was quickly betrayed by the sheer ecstasy that was glimmering through his eyes at the fighting he was in.

A swing here, a slash there, and two more of the man's opponents fell to the ground, dead. One had been a werewolf, and the other was a troll. The man then pulled out a pistol and fired off a shot into the forehead of an incoming Death Eater. All around him, the men cheered at the display of skill.

"Come on, lads!" he shouted. "Come on! Show these feculent codpieces what a _real_ soldier can do!"

Grabbing a fallen Imperial standard, the Union Jack hanging down limply, the man waved it in the air encouragingly, even as the enemy tried to charge him down once again.

"To the Colours, men!" cried out the officer. "Rally to the Colours!"

With a deafening cheer, Harry saw the defenders become reinvigorated and charge to their officer's defense, even as the Death Eaters and their allies reached him. Yet, the Union Jack never fell down, even as the officer fought off his enemies with a single saber.

Liking the man already, Harry grinned and nodded to his own men, who had similarly stopped in gobsmacked awe. "Well then, lads, come on!" he urged them. "Can't let them have all the fun, eh?"

Aboard the _Retaliation_, Wolf was staring incredulously at the crewman who had just reported to him the vicious defense being led at the North Gate. He could not believe the sheer courage displayed by both the garrison commander and his own superior officer, both of whom were reported to have delved nearly head first into the enemy throngs, weapons high in the air, the British Colours billowing in the wind behind them.

Wolf felt a measure of shame at the realization that he could never do the same, too afraid for his own life as he was. When on board a ship, sacrifice was fine, but face-to-face…no, he could never deal with that kind of danger.

Yet, at the same time as the captain felt the shame of not possessing equal courage, he also felt his own spine harden as he stood a little taller, his disposition a bit more official, more energized as he heard of the exploits of two brave men who were willing to brave the deepest pits of Hell for their country.

It was true, he realized. When a brave man takes a stand, the spines of those around him stiffen.

* * *

_Present Day_

The ebony coffin had finally reached the hill top, where Harry and the three other pallbearers waited. Behind him, Harry could hear the suppressed sob of Wolf, who had no doubt clenched his teeth to avoid crying out in despair.

Sneaking a glance to his right, where Sharpe and Wolfe were, Harry could see that both men had blank looks on their faces—and Harry had no doubt that they were equally blank inside. They seemed to be going about the motions more than anything, and even as the four men stepped forward to get to the coffin, Harry could tell that their movements were more mechanical than natural.

Above them, Harry could hear the bells tolling, their somber tones filling the day's sky with the grief felt by the nation. At the same time, however, Harry could still hear the tune of Amazing Grace eliciting from the grounds of the Air Fleet Academy, whose entire student body seemed to still be standing in the courtyard, in formation. Such was the respect that Hawke had inspired in other people.

* * *

_Five Years Ago…_

Harry ducked as a Killing Curse flew overhead, just barely catching the sight of Hawke gutting his would-be killer in revenge.

"Much obliged!" called Harry. The Navy officer, for his part, merely grinned and moved on to the next target, which Harry imitated by sweeping the floor with his leg, causing many a Death Eater to tumble—Harry gutted one and shot the other.

Taking a split second to notice his surroundings, Harry saw Hawke, still with the Colours in one hand, single-handedly cut his way through the enemy.

Grunting in exertion, the Navy officer sliced through one Death Eater after another, always expertly dodging the curses that flew at them; letting the weaker ones hit home, which barely got him grunting in pain.

Still, even Harry was forced to admit that a few more such blows would bring the tenacious officer to his knees, and so quickly made his way over to him, bringing up a sword to slice a Death Eater's arm from the elbow down. As the man screamed, grasping onto his stump of an arm, Harry grabbed the Navy officer and hauled him back to the British lines.

"A bit bullheaded, aren't you?" chided Harry with a grin. "That sort of attitude'll get you killed, one of these days!"

The officer merely grinned back, shaking his hand that held the Colours. "Nah. As long as I've got the Colours, nothing can kill me!" exerted the man, causing Harry to laugh.

The dark-haired youth then extended a hand, as his men surrounded him and pushed back against the Death Eaters. The Navy officer looked at Harry curiously. "Then…will you help me raise them once again from the highest pole?" he asked. "Will you aid me in restoring the Throne?"

The officer gave Harry a searching look. "You can't be more than eighteen, friend. Why should I?"

Harry grinned. "Because we're too alike for you not to. Because with me, you'll have all the battles you can have, and all the fights you can imagine."

"But most importantly…" Harry stated as the officer reached forward to shake his hand.

"Vengeance."

* * *

_Present Day_

Harry had secured the man's loyalty there and then. Though no formal hand-over of authority had been performed, the officer listened to Harry from then on, up until the they had to be evacuated from the base.

The four men had now grabbed the handles of the coffin and lifted it to shoulder height, the coffin slightly light, due to the fact that there was no body inside.

As they made their way into the Cathedral, and down the aisle, Harry was stunned to realize that he could hear Wolf humming a song under his breath. It was quiet, and low, but Harry's ears could hear it clearly, and what was more, he could recognize it.

Hawke had sung it on that day.

* * *

_Five Years Ago…_

"Come on!" urged Harry as the transport loomed right over the edge of the building where the last holdouts of the base were being evacuated.

The North Gate, as well as the other three Gates, had finally been overrun, but not before the entirety of the garrison had been evacuated. Harry and the officer, being the noble fools they were, had opted to stay behind and cover the retreat until the last of their men, both dead and alive, were safely in their transports.

As such, they had fought their way into the main building, their backs to the wall as they slowly made their way up the stairs towards the ceiling. Only five more men to go and they could leave, and those five were running up the stairs at full speed, only one of them opting to help his superiors fight off the onslaught of Death Eaters.

Finally, they had reached the roof, and, just as they expected, the final transport was hovering right over the edge, its ramp lowered and several soldiers lying down on it, firing down into the crowd of Death Eaters, who in turn tried to bring down the transport, with little luck. At the ramp were Sharpe and Wolfe, both of whom looked battered, but still alive. Both men were holding out their hands and gave a boost to the retreating soldiers.

Now only Harry and the Navy officer, still brandishing the Colours in one hand, were left.

"Harry, come on!" shouted Sharpe over the roar of the transport's engines. "Move it! We've got to go!"

Harry nodded and, bringing down his saber, bashed in one Werewolf's skull as he and the officer ran towards the ledge. Harry reached it first, unencumbered as he was, and reached the ramp with no problems.

Unfortunately, just as he turned around to help the officer onto the ramp, a _Reductor_ curse hit the bottom of the transport and made it move a good half meter away from the ledge.

Undeterred, the officer jumped off the ledge towards the transport, and Harry had to fling himself onto the floor of the ramp to grab the man's hand, which had been formerly occupied by his sword. The Colours, for their part, still lay tightly in his grip.

Grinning in exasperation, even as the transport moved away from the building and into the air, Harry shook his head in wonderment. "You stupid bastard!" he shouted with a smile. "You could have died!"

The officer laughed at that. "Oh, shut up and pull me up, will you?" The officer grinned as he was pulled up by Harry, Sharpe, and Wolfe.

Eventually, the four men were inside the transport, and cheering broke out throughout the transport as the news filtered through that Harry and the officer had survived. Harry hauled the battered Navy officer into a seat before doing so himself as well on the opposite side.

Both men took heavy breaths as the adrenaline wore off, and yet both almost immediately began laughing, just as Sharpe and Wolfe shook their heads in exasperation.

Leaning forward, Harry brought up a fist, and the officer obliged by bumping it with his own. "We make a good team," observed Harry with a grin.

"Indeed we do," affirmed the man. "Not bad for a kid."

Both men laughed again before settling down, just as Wolfe and Sharpe moved further into the transport, having decided on going to the cockpit to deliver the news to Wolf through the intercom.

As the two men rested, Harry saw the officer looking out the port hole window next to him at the base on the ground, which was now dark with black-coated Death Eaters. To Harry's surprise, the man began singing under his breath. It wasn't a tune he was familiar with, though, and he guessed his faced showed it, as the officer ended up smiling at him.

"It's a Gaelic tune. My grandmum was Irish," he explained. "She taught it to me when I was five. Before the war, I sung it every night to my children."

The man laughed now. "They never understood a word I was saying, but they said it sounded 'pretty,' so I kept singing it."

Harry was silent for a moment before finally speaking up. "Teach it to me," he asked, softly.

The officer looked at him from the corner of his eye before nodding. He silently extended a hand, which confused Harry.

"Jeremy William Hawke. Commodore in the British Imperial Navy."

Harry smiled his first true smile in a month as he shook the man's hand. "Harry James Potter. Brigadier General in the British Imperial Army. What is it with my friends being named after animals?"

Both men roared in laughter at that.

* * *

_Present Day_

Harry remembered sadly how Hawke had teased him about his age that day, exclaiming in mock outrage how unfair it was that such youngsters as Harry had been promoted to Brigadier General, whereas he himself was only a mere Commodore. Both had laughed practically all the way to the transport, and the laughter had quickly become contagious as the whole transport had begun sharing in the fun.

As the procession finally rested the coffin at the forefront of the Cathedral, the four men stood to the side as the Archbishop came forward and delivered his service in memory of Jeremy William Hawke, Air Admiral of the British Imperial Air Fleet.

Harry remembered how it wasn't until they had turned less and less towards fighting the Death Eaters and more towards self-indulgence when Hawke had lost much of his humour. It had taken debauchery for Hawke to lose his approachability. And yet, in his final moments, he had still come through for his friend, his colleague. Even knowing the depths to which they had fallen, he had chosen to carry out his duty, and had granted Harry the responsibility of carrying out his dying dream—the restoration of the British Imperial Throne. To see another sit on the sacred Throne of Saint Edward the Confessor.

And he had done it. Harry had done it.

Though Harry was unsure as to whether or not Hawke would be proud of him, proud of the way he had taken the splintered factions and brought them back together, he dearly hoped he had.

Even so, the dark-haired Field Marshall now joined Wolf in humming the tune that Hawke had taught them. Eventually, the song spread to the four pallbearers, even as the Archbishop wrapped up his eulogy and Harry was called up to the stand. Looking briefly at his fellow pallbearers for a moment, Harry received a single nod before the Field Marshall went to the stand, ready to give his farewell speech.

Clearing his throat, Harry began. "Five years ago, I met Jeremy Hawke when I participated in the rescue of his garrison, which had been left behind by the elements of the Royal Navy that had been stationed there," he informed his audience.

"Now, there is no way for me to adequately describe what Jeremy meant to me, or to my fellow pallbearers, all of whom spent as much time with him as I did, and perhaps more, as I was the superior officer of the lot," he continued. "But Jeremy only ever paid attention to rank when orders had to be given; when discipline was to be enforced. Otherwise, he was a man of the common soldier. He was loved throughout his fleet. Even now, I dare say, if you were to strain your ears, you would hear the pipes of the Air Fleet Academy blaring out a series of different musical _homage_ to our fallen friend."

"For that was what he was: a friend. Before a comrade, before a superior; before a subordinate, Jeremy Hawke was a friend. He carried out his duty to his friends with the same ferocity he became a legend for in carrying out his duty for his country. And who of us can say the same? Who among us can say that we devote such times to the roses around us, as opposed to the big picture?"

Pausing now, Harry paused himself as he felt something rise within him. Taking a deep breath, however, he ploughed on. "Jeremy, the day before the battle, told me something I will never forget. He told me, 'Harry, don't ever forget why we do what we do; why we spill the blood we spill.' I, being the thickheaded idiot you see before you, couldn't understand, of course." A subdued wave of laughter went through his audience. "But he was kind enough to explain. He told me, 'Harry, the Empire isn't all about fighting to keep it. We need to _want_ it to stay for it to survive. Although steel and shot carved a place in the sun for us, the Empire only ever rose to such heights on the wings of liberty and justice.'"

Harry paused as he saw the contemplative looks in his audience. "That was Jeremy Hawke for you," noted Harry. "He never looked it, but he was a contemplative man to the bone. Perhaps even to the point where he could drive a philosopher up the wall." Again, subdued laughter. "But when he voiced such thoughts, he made all others stop. He made people listen. He upheld the virtues we needed, and shunned and scorned the vices that afflict us."

"Even at our darkest moment; even as the Empire seemingly collapsed around us; even as the battle seemed to turn against out—Jeremy always stood defiant, Colours in his left hand, saber in his right. He never quit, he never faltered. These words did not exist within the mind of the man that was Jeremy Hawke. A bred Irishman, a born soldier, a devoted Loyalist, and a tortured widower—he was the epitome of the common Loyalist during the war. His grief was a grief felt throughout our meager numbers. But, like him, we rose to the challenge. We defied what historians _claimed_ would happen. We spat in the face of the overwhelming odds and we did what the world said could not be done!" he asserted now, stiffening the spines of those who listened in the same manner as Hawke had done.

"We survived! We lived on!" he declared. "Like Hawke's dream of a lasting Empire, _we are here!_ Defiant! Ready to brave the odds again and again, until our enemies tremble in terror at our wrath!" Harry was really getting into the speech now, and people still listened. For Sharpe and Wolfe, it was like seeing a superimposed image of the 17-year old Harry they had followed in the Royal Northern Army, and for Wolf, it was like watching Hawke rally his men.

"With every breath we take, we honour the name of Jeremy Hawke!" continued Harry. "With every day we live, we stand against our enemies with our heads raised! With every such act, we tell them, _we will not go quietly into the night!_"

"_No!_" agreed the crowd around him.

"_We will not die without a fight!_"

"_No!_"

Raising a fist into the air, as if grabbing onto an imaginary rope, Harry looked towards the Cathedral ceilings, imagining Hawke bumping his fist with his own. A smile crept up onto Harry's face.

"Today, we celebrate Jeremy Hawke's sacrifice," he announced. "We celebrate the magnificent gift he gave us—our dignity! Our pride!"

Cheering swept through the Cathedral, and Harry was certain this was how Hawke would have wanted it—with the Empire invigorated, returned, powerful.

"Our Empire!"

* * *

_AN: I hope everyone enjoyed the first of these many interludes. They aren't actual fillers, mind you, just the scenes that I never had the time to flesh out in the story, so I cut them out and re-wrote them separately to give them the depth they deserved. There'll be more of these, though not on a regular basis (sometimes we'll go five chapters without another such interlude). _

_Also, to be clear on a few questions posed: Hawke's full name **is** Jeremy William Hawke. Secondly, Elizabeth III is indeed 15 (my bad if you read any differently). Thirdly, the reunion amongst the Potters will occur in a few more chapters. Please be patient._

_The following is the lyrics to the song that Sharpe, Wolf, Wolfe, and Harry were humming as they carried the coffin down the aisle. It's titled "Wander My Friends," by Bear McCreary. For any who wonder, it's in Irish Gaelic. For a good idea of how they sound as they hum it, though, please refer to "Reuniting the Fleet," also by Bear McCreary (both found on youtube).  
_

_Siúlaigí a chairde, siúlaidh liom_

_Mar cheo an tsléibhe uaine ag_

_imeacht go deo_

_D'ainneoin ár dtuirse leanfam an tslí_

_Thar chnoic is thar ghleannta_

_go deireadh na scríbi_

_Seo libh a chairde is canaidh liom_

_Líonaigí'n oíche le greann is le spórt_

_Seo sláinte na gcarad atá imithe uainn_

_Mar cheo an tsléibhe uaine,_

_iad imithe go deo_


	4. Chapter II: Land of the Rising Sun

_AN: Well, here's the next chapter. No action here, though. Sorry, folks. - MB_

* * *

Hours later, Harry was waiting patiently in the Queen's bedroom's entrance as Elizabeth changed behind a screen, helped by her attendants.

"Pleasant man, that Prime Minister," Elizabeth commented randomly.

"Pleasant enough, Your Majesty," agreed Harry.

Harry heard Elizabeth sigh. "Halifax, when are you going to stop addressing me so formally?" whined the Queen. "How many times must we—I ask you to call me Elizabeth?"

Harry grinned, though this passed unnoticed by his sovereign. "At least once more, Your Majesty."

The Queen huffed and would have crossed her arms, had it not been for the fact that she was being slid out of her dress.

Harry chuckled appreciatively before resuming his wait. A few minutes later, the Queen was out of her formal dress and once again in her Oxford shirt-skirt combination. She walked over to her bed and sat on the edge, glaring at him, while Harry merely raised an eyebrow.

"You're mean," she accused him somewhat immaturely.

Harry snickered. "Very mature, Your Majesty."

Elizabeth scowled briefly before letting the subject drop. "What are we doing tomorrow?" she asked.

Harry pulled out a piece of paper from his breast-pocket and unfolded it. "At nine in the morning, we have a breakfast with the Prime Minister and his wife," he read. "Then, at ten thirty, a meeting with the brass from the Japanese Imperial Army. Then, at twelve thirty, a lunch hosted by the British Liberation Foundation, who have been sending supplies and money to our factions for years now, and then a two-thirty, we have the meeting with the judges from the Supreme Court, before finally meeting the Emperor at four-thirty."

"How come we meet the Emperor last?" asked Elizabeth.

"The Emperor is…" Harry struggled to find the right words. "….a very pragmatic man. The way I understand it, he wants to see if we can get along with his government staff before making any friendly overtures. If we get into conflict with any of the different departments, he'll most likely simply follow protocol and never bother with us again."

Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow at that. "Pretty harsh rules, don't you think?"

Harry shrugged. "I've seen worse. There was this one general in Spain, back when I was a simple lieutenant—the man simply listened to my superior for a single sentence before declaring the meeting unfit for his attention and leaving."

Elizabeth gasped at the anecdote. "How disrespectful!"

Harry shrugged, snickering at the memory. "Actually, most of us agreed with the man. Lieutenant-Colonel Miles was a spineless, cowardly suck-up. His failure to initiate the meeting, let alone give a proper greeting, was all the brass needed to kick him out."

Elizabeth giggled at Harry's description of the man. "You're horrible!"

"I'm realistic," countered Harry with a smug grin. "The poor man was so much of a parasite, even the men he sucked up to couldn't stand him."

"What happened afterwards?" asked Elizabeth, thoroughly enjoying the story.

Harry chuckled and, completely unconsciously, went to sit on a nearby cushioned chair. It was odd how comfortable he felt with the Queen, despite the supposed detachment he should be feeling. "Would you believe it? Miles managed to get himself back in the Army by sucking up to some general who'd just gotten promoted."

"And?"

"Well," Harry said laughingly, before remembering what came shortly afterwards. His chuckles slowly died down after that.

"Halifax?"

"We got reassigned to India," Harry continued quietly, his face paling quickly. Elizabeth was shocked as the humour left his eyes, replaced by something else. Something she could only describe as traumatic terror. "W-We…" he swallowed as shakes began to take over his body.

"Harry?" she asked concernedly as she got up and came over, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"P-Please, Your Majesty…please don't make me say what happened…" Harry pleaded. "I don't want to remember"

Elizabeth was, for once, truly shocked speechless. Here sat the most charismatic, powerful warlord in her service, and he was practically going through a mental breakdown just from the thought of his assignment in India. What could possibly have gone so wrong that it would still cause, nearly a decade after, such emotional trauma in her greatest general?

"I won't," she reassured him as his shakes got stronger. He looked about ready to have a fit if she said yes. "Not until you're ready."

Harry nodded thankfully before shakily getting up from his seat and bowing somewhat awkwardly towards Elizabeth. "I-I should withdraw for the night, Your Majesty," he said, somewhat troubled by how quickly he'd lost his composure as the memories were brought back. "Good evening,"

Elizabeth was barely able to return the politeness when Harry swivelled on his feet and left the room, leaving Elizabeth speechless at the Field Marshall's actions.

She'd never before seen the man act so…human. What she'd seen had not been some sort of improvised acting, she could tell. This was real, definite terror. The man was haunted by whatever it was that happened in India, and his brain had repressed it so much under layers of terror and fear that the very conscious thought of them made the normally fearless man quiver.

What in the blazes had happened in India?

* * *

The next day, Elizabeth found Harry acting completely normally, much to her surprise. Not a single thing about his demeanour showed how close he'd come to breaking down the previous day.

The meetings, for their part, went well, in both hers and Harry's opinion. There was some argument, of course, but coupled with Harry's knowledge and eloquence, and Elizabeth's own charisma, the Imperial duo managed to diffuse any situation to their favour; something that their hosts only realized after the meeting was over.

The only glitch in the program had been their meeting with the Imperial military brass, who'd looked far too interested in the Assault Ship technology to be passed off as harmless curiosity. While the Japanese had known all about the air battles, they'd been unable to build any due to their lack of plans and available theoretical knowledge, which could have then been passed on to their own Magical community. Instead, the Japanese had resorted to a strictly defensive policy regarding the Assault Ships, creating massive anti-air cannons which Harry had no doubt could bring down one of his ships with a couple of shots.

Still, the possibility of engaging the two Empires in an alliance had brought out their desire for the Assault Ship technology, and Harry was wary of unleashing yet another fleet over the Earth. It was bad enough that the Americans, the British Empire, and the Death Eaters had them, which in and of itself had caused swathes of destruction across the globe, and so the Field Marshall was very cautious about letting out the technology any farther.

The Japanese, however, were undeterred by Harry's reluctance, stating that it would be viewed massively unfair for the British Empire to end up winning the war and have the only Airfleet on the planet. They'd also threatened to remain absolutely neutral in the conflict, and hinted at the passing of laws that would prohibit trade between the two in order to not provoke the Death Eaters. Though Harry knew the Death Eaters and the Japanese hated each other already, he, and by association, Elizabeth, knew that they were reliant on food imports from Asia mainly, and so gave in eventually.

He did manage to keep secret some of the technology, however, and simply gave the Japanese the _theoretical_ portion of it. He would let them design the rest.

For some reason, the brass' huge grins at the news disturbed him.

The rest of the meetings, on the other hand, went along fine. Elizabeth had a blast during the luncheon hosted by the British Liberation Front, most of whose members were either expatriates, or hopeful immigrants who wanted to become part of the Empire. Thus, they were all _very_ attentive to the Queen, while some of the group's leaders discussed official business with Harry.

"All I'm saying, gentlemen," Harry repeated as he swirled his drink. "Is that immediate immigration is going to be very tricky. Nova Britannia isn't big enough to handle the numbers you're suggesting. For us to be able to accommodate that many arrivals, we would need to build another artificial island, and that takes about nine months."

"We can wait nine months!" assured one of the leaders fervently. "We just wish to go home!"

Another of them nodded eagerly. "Japan is nice, and the people have been kind to us, but it isn't _our_ land! We're guests here, nothing more!"

"I understand your concerns, gentlemen," Harry assured them. "However, bear in mind that even if the new island is built, the immigration process is not included within that timeframe. Due to security concerns, we've needed to raise the standards a bit higher."

"What does that mean?" demanded another of the leaders—this one the representative of the Magical sector.

"It means, good sir, that while the Ungifted might not find many barriers, the Gifted sectors, with the exception of those Loyalist families whose record of loyalty is unblemished, may find their immigration more…harsh."

The implications of Harry's statement were not lost on the group of BLF leaders, some of whom paled. A couple, however, reddened in indignation.

"That's racism!" hissed one of the few who were outraged.

"It's necessary," countered Harry calmly, though his eyes flashed in annoyance. "The last traitors to the Crown were all Gifted and we've no assurances that the Death Eaters haven't placed sleeper cells within the expatriate Gifted community."

Many within the group seemed to agree with this assessment, though mostly reluctantly.

"We can't say we didn't see this coming," noted one of them sorrowfully. "Rebellion does have its consequences."

"Aye," agreed one of the more aged leaders as he stroked his beard. "Surely, however, there will be levels of harshness involved within the Gifted immigration process?"

Harry nodded as he sipped from his cup of wine. "Indeed. Ungifted-born members of the Gifted community will be granted more leeway, as will those of one Gifted parentage. Those with a history of pure Gifted parentage, however, will be dealt with the harshest."

"Purebloods, you mean?" checked one of the younger men. Harry nodded.

"We've changed the terminology to avoid the use of 'blood'. We believe it makes us more civilized than the Death Eaters if we admit that the Gifted are just that—gifted, whereas part of the community they make up aren't."

Nods of acceptance ruled the group as they agreed this was a wise course of action.

"How come you haven't been brought under fire for your heritage, then?" asked one of the more irritated leaders. Harry correctly guessed the man was from pure Gifted parentage.

"I was, actually," replied Harry calmly, much to their shock. "As Her Majesty's Head of the Armed Forces, I was put under more scrutiny than anyone else. In fact, there was talk within Parliament to have me replaced by either Admiral Staples," here they shuddered at the thought. "Or General Sulu, while I was being tested."

"But you're the one who's been closest to victory against the Death Eaters!" protested one of the men. Obviously, he'd been a fan of the Northern Duke. "How could they ever suspect you?"

"Dumbledore defeated the Dark Lord Grindelwald in nineteen forty-five," noted Harry absently before taking another sip. "We never suspected him to be disloyal until he captured those five hundred men in the name of the Ministry of Magic."

That shut up the outrage. None of them could think of anything to say to that, while Harry simply observed them calmly and took a sip of his wine now and then.

"Any more questions, gentlemen?" asked Harry eventually. The leaders shook their heads in the negative, making Harry smile tightly and incline his head respectfully. "Very well then, good sirs, I pray you'll excuse me, then. I must go and check up on Her Majesty."

With that, Harry excused himself from the group and went up to Elizabeth, who was cheerfully laughing as she was entertained by the BLF women's gossip.

The meeting with the Judges also went well, with Harry explaining himself to their satisfaction on the issue of harsher immigration laws for the Empire. A few of them were more reluctant to agree, but all of them conceded, in the end, that the new rules were, in fact warranted and justified.

What had the two Imperials nervous, however, was their final visit. Finally, it was time to meet with the Emperor of Japan, the true ruler of the Japanese isles, much like the Crown had truly ruled over the British Empire.

It was two nervous, but outwardly calm people who walked up the many steps towards the Imperial Throne Room.

* * *

The Throne Room, Harry found, truly lived up to its fame and was a magnificent show of the Japanese's wealth. The very throne glittered as if made of gold, and Harry could see a giant ruby at the top of it, directly above the Emperor's head.

Harry bowed low, while Elizabeth merely nodded courteously. As the Queen of the British Empire, the Emperor and Elizabeth held equal hierarchical status. Even so, however, most of the courtesans looked on aghast as Elizabeth did not bow low.

For his part, however, the Emperor looked amused, and indeed, intrigued by Elizabeth's passive defiance of the traditional submission. He'd started contemplating simply keeping this as a courtesy call after he heard how reticent the Imperials had been about the Assault Ship technology, but now, seeing the fiery redheaded Queen openly, if silently, make her claim of equality to him, he was quickly reconsidering.

"Welcome to Japan," he greeted them solemnly, his head obscured by the shadows of the canopy above his throne.

Elizabeth smiled at the shadowed figure of the Emperor. Despite the canopy, she could still see his white gloves and black tunic.

"We are honoured to meet our cousin in Royalty," she replied.

Harry, for his part, slowly rose until he was straight-backed once more.

"I have been told," noted the Emperor with a distinct Japanese accent, "that you were rescued from a prison. Is this true?"

Elizabeth barely winced at the memory, but managed to keep her cool as she nodded. "We were, milord. It is not a pleasant memory we hold dear."

Harry watched as a slight movement within the shadows told him the Emperor had nodded. "Indeed not," he replied shortly. He then remained silent for a moment, before turning his head towards one of the attendants. "What are you waiting for? Do you not know how to treat our Royal cousin? Have you no manners? Find a seat for our honoured guest!" he barked.

Quickly, a seat was brought for Elizabeth, on which she sat, as Harry stood next to her, face impassive.

Once properly accommodated, the Emperor continued. "I was wondering," resumed the Emperor, "Whether you could elaborate for me the situation with your little war."

Elizabeth nodded at the Emperor. "Of course." She then turned to Harry slightly and gave a short nod.

Nodding back, Harry dipped his head respectfully towards the shadowed Emperor before beginning his explanation.

Harry bared no detail as he lay the facts before the Emperor. He told him of the Imperial Army's reactivation in 1994, its low manpower during the years between 1905 to 1994, and the battles of Diagon Alley and Serpent Fortress.

Upon further prodding, however, Harry was convinced to divulge the details of the battle over Canada, and then the events that occurred after the fall of Great Britain. He was also forced to admit that he was a widower, and had lost his entire family to the Death Eaters. That was when the Emperor had stopped him, sounding pensive.

"Strange," drawled the Emperor as he stroked his chin. "For I have heard the name Potter before."

"My father, no doubt, Your Majesty," guessed Harry. "He was one of the Imperial Governors for a while."

To his surprise, however, the Emperor dismissed that notion with a wave. "No, far more recent…" he mused. He then barked a short command in Japanese, which had one of his attendants scurry forward. After having a rapid conversation with the man, he sent him off before turning back to Harry. "I thought as much," he mused. "I _have_ heard of a Potter before."

Harry suddenly felt himself take in a deep breath and hold it. Hope began to fill his mind, battling with his rational doubt. No one had _specifically_ confirmed their disappearance, after all…No! There was no way they could have survived such an attack!

But what if they had?

Slowly, Harry asked the Emperor. "What is this Potter's name?" asked Harry, his voice tremulous and desperate. Unconsciously, he'd even taken a step forward, causing Elizabeth to look up towards him with a look of compassion.

The Emperor smiled toothily—a fact that became obvious as his pearly-white teeth shone in the darkness.

"Ginevra Potter."

Harry felt himself stumble backwards, as if someone had slapped him hard.

"G-Ginny Potter?" he asked, shaken and ashen faced.

The Emperor nodded from within the shadows. "Ginevra Potter. She was an attaché for one of the diplomatic missions a few years ago."

His Ginny, a member of a diplomatic mission? Something in that didn't ring right for Harry, so he unconsciously narrowed his eyes. "That doesn't sound like her…" he observed coolly. "What exactly was she doing?"

The Emperor nodded in satisfaction as Harry questioned his statement. His courtesans, however, seemed outraged, while Elizabeth looked on amusedly. Obviously, she was used to the Field Marshall's attitude.

"Officially? She was one of the diplomats' secretary," drawled the Emperor. "However, she was also a spy. A very impressive one, too. We only ever realized this fact _after_ she left."

Harry raised his eyebrows in happy surprise. _That_ sounded more like his disappeared wife.

"She was very charming," recalled the Emperor fondly. "A true vision of beauty, much like your Queen, if a bit sadder," he added as he glanced at Elizabeth, who blushed prettily but kept herself impassive. "May I ask what your relation to her is?" he asked, curiously.

Harry gulped. If she was who Harry thought she was, then this changed _everything_. "If she's who I think she is, Your Majesty…" he started tremulously. "She is my wife."

Harry could practically _hear_ the eyebrow rise. "Truly?" asked the Emperor with some excitement. "You are the spouse of the—" here he spoke an unfamiliar word, which Harry assumed was Japanese.

"I'm sorry?" asked Harry.

"My apologies. I did not realize I had switched to the Mother Tongue," apologized the Emperor. "It translates into the Lioness."

'How appropriate,' Harry thought wryly. "That certainly sounds like her, Your Majesty," Harry said.

"But I thought you were a widower?" there was a note of challenge in the Emperor's voice.

"So did I," admitted Harry, sadly. "All reports from Britain at the time led me to believe she, and the rest of my family, had been wiped out during the initial coup."

The Emperor nodded pensively. "It is fate, then," he declared at length. At both Elizabeth and Harry's curious looks, the Emperor elaborated. "It is only fitting for the Lioness to be married to Britain's Lion."

Elizabeth couldn't help herself. She giggled.

Harry's neck spun so fast towards her that she swore she heard it snap. He was looking down incredulously at her, but was further shocked when the Emperor let out a chuckle along with Elizabeth's next giggle. Before Harry and the rest of the court knew it, the two sovereigns, rulers of huge swathes of land, were howling in laughter. Some of the courtesans tried to emulate the laughter, not wanting to look bad, but Harry simply stared in shock at his sovereign, as did most of the level-headed Japanese officials with their own.

Regaining his composure soon, however, the Emperor allowed a rare smile to light up his face as the shadows seemed to recede. Harry watched with awe as slowly, the shadows moved upwards, until none remained under the canopy, revealing the middle-aged face of the Emperor of Japan.

The Emperor had high cheekbones and a pointed nose, giving him a distinct aristocratic air. This was further enhanced by the Emperor's padlock beard and topknot. He was, however, wearing an entirely Western black tunic, as well as black gloves. Seeing Harry and Elizabeth's impressed looks, the Emperor allowed a smirk to come through.

"It is called Shadow Magic," explained the Emperor. "I daresay that your wizards would call it Dark."

The subtle challenge was not lost on either sovereign or subject.

"We hold no position against the Dark," stated Elizabeth. "Only those who would use it to deal evil, horror, and devastation."

The Emperor looked pleased at this and nodded. He contemplated his two guests for a moment before nodding again and saying his last words of the audience.

"We can discuss an alliance."

By the time the Imperial duo had left the country, the two were mentally and physically exhausted. The Emperor, as it turned out, was considered a master fencer among his peers, but only in the traditional Japanese art of _kenjutsu_. When he'd heard that Harry was considered among the best fencers in the Empire previous to the Empire's fall, he'd insisted on a match, in order to see which style was better—European or Japanese.

In the end, it took well over fourteen bouts before the two had managed to even land a hit, with both of them ending up hitting the other's off-arm. By the twenty first bout, the two had landed what would have been a mortal blow at the same time, leaving it at a draw. Harry, however, had no doubt that the Emperor was holding back, as he was. Had this been a battlefield, neither man was sure whether they could win against the other.

It was amongst much gasping, then, when both men exchanged swords as a sign of respect and appreciation. Harry now had in his possession one of the Emperor's personal _katana_, while the Emperor now possessed the Iron Duke's magic-hardened, ornate, steel rapier.

For Elizabeth's part, however, what exhausted her most was the many outdoor activities that the Emperor's wife and concubines seemed to enjoy. She'd had to fight off her feminist impulses as she'd found out about the Emperor's polygamous nature, but had nonetheless managed to make a rapport with the women. However, the mind games that the Imperial Court seemed to enjoy so much had drained her mentally as well, as she had to continuously avoid and/or deflect the subtle hooks that the women would drop in mid-conversation in order to get any bit of information. She'd slipped several times, but Harry had later reassured her that nothing she'd divulged had been critical.

Still, the two had managed to deal with the mysterious and subtle nature of the Imperial Court, and so were now well on their way to their next stop.

The Confederacy.


	5. Chapter III: The Confederacy

_AN: And here's the next chapter! A few revelations, some character building, but still no action! It'll come soon, though, so don't worry! - MB  
_

* * *

The Confederacy was, for lack of a better word, a surprise to the Imperials.

Used to being the foremost country of Technomancy, with only two other rivals for that title, they were thus incredibly shocked when, upon reaching Confederate airspace, they were met with a tight security cordon made up of Assault Ships.

Harry was gaping at the ships from the cockpit when the first transmission came through.

"_Unidentified vessel," _came the female voice. _"Identify yourself and purpose of visit."_

The pilot nervously looked up to Harry, who nodded back, before punching the active transmission button. "Confederate Assault Ship," replied the pilot. "This is Diplomatic Imperial Shuttle _Messenger_, we are transporting the British Sovereign on a diplomatic mission to the Confederacy."

"_Stand by for confirmation. Do not attempt to land or you will be shot down."_

The pilots nervously watched either side of their glass window as they passed between two Assault Ships, their sides covered with cannons aimed at them. Five minutes passed with none of the three men feeling very sure anymore about the visit before they saw the cannons shift to another target.

"_DIS Messenger,"_ came the voice soon after. _"You have been cleared for landing at Capital Airfield, Landing Pad Four. We are sending you the trajectory now."_

"Copy that, Confederate Assault Ship," replied the pilot as all three men let out a sigh of relief. Harry nodded to the pilots briefly before heading back into the passenger cabin. Elizabeth had been reading a book during the whole affair.

Glancing up from her reading, she gave her Field Marshall a bright smile. "Anything interesting going on?"

Harry shrugged. "Nothing serious, Your Majesty," he assured her, while he was truthfully reeling on the inside about the Confederates having Assault Ship technology. Obviously, the balance of power wasn't calibrated the way he'd thought.

Harry's mind raced with the massive ramifications of this discovery. With the Imperials, Death Eaters, Americans, and now the Confederacy holding the Archangel technology, this meant that the Archangel development team had been dispersed more widely than the projected guesses made by the Empire. However, what was more terrifying was the issue that with the Confederacy in the arms race now, there now was another player in the war, potentially joining either the Death Eaters or the Imperial cause.

Truth be told, the idea of fighting another opponent was one that unnerved Harry a great deal, as the Imperial forces were almost stretched to the breaking point with the amount of territory they had to cover. If the Confederacy ever declared war on the Empire...

Harry shuddered at the thought. It would be disastrous; perhaps even spell the end of the Empire.

Sighing, he realized that all he could do was hope for the best, and call up Staples and Sulu once they touched ground.

* * *

_Capital Airport, Diplomatic Lounge_

After having landed at LP-4, the Imperial delegation had been ushered to the Diplomatic Lounge, where a protocol welcoming committee was waiting. All of them seemed nearly euphoric at meeting both the new Queen and the famous Iron Duke. Eventually, however, Harry was able to extricate himself from the conversations and found a nice, quiet corner, where he took out his personal communicator, tuning it to Staples and Sulu's frequencies.

"Ty, John, come in," he mumbled into the communicator.

"We hear you, Harry, what is it?" came Sulu's voice eventually.

Harry glanced around him to make sure no one was listening before mumbling once more into his communicator. "Turns out we were wrong about the balance of power."

Both Staples and Sulu knew what this meant. It meant that the Assault Ship technology had leaked outside of the British-Death Eater War participants.

"The Japanese?" asked Sulu.

"Improbable," came Staples' gruff reply. "They would have deployed some on patrol by now, and I've not seen an Assault Ship that wasn't ours or our enemies' in those waters."

"It's the Confederacy," Harry told them softly.

"_The Confederacy?_" Harry didn't think he'd ever heard Staples sound so sceptically outraged before. Truthfully, though, none of them had ever even _considered_ the Confederacy as a potential threat.

Harry forced himself not to nod. "Aye. I counted about seven in just one sector as the _Messenger_ was entering Confederate Airspace."

"…and if we extrapolate that to the remaining known sectors of Confederate Airspace," Sulu added, "that makes about…seventy Assault Ships of varying classes, _minimum_."

"We still have supremacy," concluded Staples gruffly. "Our fleet counts with a little less than triple that amount and rising. Our losses in Utah included."

"Numbers isn't everything, Staples," Sulu noted softly.

Harry unconsciously nodded, though neither Sulu nor Staples would be able to see this. "I agree," he added shortly. "And let us remember that this is all they have that we can _see_. Didn't your spies tell you that there was a potential conflict going on down south, John?"

"Indeed," came the soft-spoken reply. "We'd noticed increased activity on the Brazil-Confederate border. It seems the Dark Wizards in Brazil are starting to turn towards the Death Eaters' camp."

"We can't interfere," Staples growled. "The Imperial military is, at is stands, way too spread out. With O'Connor and McDonald acting shifty, Sydney under siege, and numerous other skirmishes occurring over Africa and Asia, our ships are barely able to keep up with patrol routes. And even then, we _still_ have blind spots!"

"Perhaps it would be for the best if you were to return, Harry," suggested Sulu

"Agreed," agreed Harry, followed shortly by Staples' agreeing grunt, before noticing someone coming over to him by the window's reflection. "Alright, I have to go. Protocol man is coming."

Harry heard brief acknowledgements as he clicked off the communicator and subtly stashed it away inside his coat. He then turned smilingly at the liaison.

"Your Grace, we were wondering where you were!" greeted the man.

Harry allowed a polite chuckle to escape his lips. "I just needed some time alone. My apologies if I've worried anyone."

The liaison merely smiled good-naturedly and started rambling his predetermined speech while Harry nodded every so often, smiling all the time. The Duke was used to the procedure. He would step off a shuttle, get greeted by some suspiciously cheerful men and women, who would then proceed to tell him how wonderful it was that he was visiting their country, to then offer him anything he wanted to drink or eat, then telling him where he was staying, before finally escorting him to the car. Only this time, Harry wasn't the guest of honour, but rather the assistant. Thus, instead of a large group of people welcoming him and all, he was stuck with his personal liaison.

Harry indulged the man's rambling all the way to the car, where he could see that Elizabeth was quickly getting frustrated with the protocol team, who were smothering her. If the young Duke had learned anything in his tenure at the Queen's side, it was that Elizabeth _hated_ being smothered.

Thus, when Elizabeth shot him a pleading look, Harry did the only thing he could in such a situation.

He grinned and waved.

* * *

Elizabeth was bored.

It had been no more than an hour after they had disembarked and Harry had left back to the Imperial Capital (quickly replaced by Prime Minister Allen Lee), and yet here she was, being fawned upon by nearly an entire corps of the Confederacy's legions of diplomatic attachés. She was sitting in a wooden, throne-like replica of her chair in the Imperial Palace, watching as diplomat after diplomat bent over backwards in order to impress her or try to influence her one way or another. After dealing with the Emperor of Japan's concubines, Elizabeth found most of the diplomats int he Confederacy to be woefully inept in the art of manipulation. Even now, one of them was at the foot of her pre-made dais, trying to convince her of the advantages of hiring Confederate shipyards for building up the Imperial fleet. Not that she had the power to immediately sanction any such thing.

She felt less ill-will, however, towards the Loyalists who had attended her welcome ceremony in the renovated party-hall. Many ex-Britons had arrived to offer obeisance, kneeling before her and asking her to bless them (Anglicans, she imagined); of course, she tried to get out of doing any such thing, disregarding herself as a saint of any sort, and yet always ended up being coaxed into performing the act. She had once even been asked to hold a woman's child and bless him with a kiss to the forehead, which she had reluctantly then done.

Through her boredom, however, she noticed that humans weren't the only species attending her welcoming. At the back of the room, in seemingly secret discussions with either other humanoid beings or humans were goblins. The small, green-skinned beings seemed to relish the opportunity to do business, and their leader had even once come forth to welcome her in a most polite fashion that even made most human attempts at the same pale in comparison.

Elizabeth now nodded as her current speaker finished his (allegedly) subtle offers at huge deals if he were offered a contract. After bowing and kissing her hand, the man was then escorted to a safe distance from her by Elizabeth's Imperial Guard, who took their jobs enormously seriously. The red-decked elite soldiers had a safe perimeter established around her dais, and not-so-subtly forced people away from their Queen if they got too close without requesting an audience formally. Only the Prime Minister and the Confederate Prime Minister had any right to pass by unhindered.

Turning to her Prime Minister, who was standing by her left side, Elizabeth whispered. "Surely this is not all that is going to happen here, Prime Minister?" she nearly hissed. Frankly, the boredom was driving her out of her mind.

Lee looked at her apologetically for a split second before adopting his typical cheery-like disposition. "Thousand pardons, Your Majesty, but I'm afraid so. The more lively events were planned for later during your visit," he told her as he smiled to a passing diplomat and nodded his head in greeting. "I'm afraid the doldrums must come first, though."

Elizabeth sighed as she tapped a finger on her armrest repeatedly. "What is the point of being Queen if all there is to do is look pretty and smile, Lee?" she asked rhetorically. "I was under the impression that my ancestors were far more active during their reign."

"Not your immediate ancestors, I'm afraid, Majesty," corrected Lee as he gave a small, cheery wave to two female assistants who passed by and were giggling at his act. "  
Your namesake was unfortunately barred from active participation in the affairs of state. You, in fact, perhaps possess twice the power she did during her reign."

Elizabeth nodded silently. A moment of silence passed between the two as they kept greeting diplomats and other well-wishers. Elizabeth then broke the silence again. "I understand that I am expected to wed soon, Lee?" she mentioned. With some interest, she noticed that Lee had frozen up.

"Yes...well..." stuttered Lee before clearing his throat as quietly as possible. "Majesty, we're worried that the line may end with you, you understand," he explained. "After all, you _are_ the last of a thousand year old line of monarchs; Since even before the days of William the Conqueror," he reminded her. "We just wish to safeguard the throne."

"And my happiness, Prime Minister?" asked Elizabeth icily. So much so that even her guards were getting restless with discomfort. "Am I not to wed the man I love when and if I find him?"

Lee fidgeted again. "Ideally, yes, Majesty," he conceded. "However, unless you have found this man, we must really insist that you find the most suitable suitor and simply marry him. Parliament is most emphatic on this point, Majesty," he told her.

"The pox with Parliament and their wishes!" hissed Elizabeth. "I will marry in due time, and have children when I am ready, Minister. _Not_ at the whim of a group of desperate men, and certainly not at the word of self-serving politicians!"

Lee seemed taken aback by the Queen's virulent condemnation, but his eyes showed a certain measure of respect, too. Like the military brass, he had felt some scepticism at the Queen's ability due to her age, but her stubborn refusal to be bullied around by Parliament elicited in him a deep feeling of respect for the 15-year old girl, for whom his heart went out to, as his own little girl was the Queen's age.

"Of course, Majesty," he accepted obediently.


	6. Chapter IV: Sacrifice

_AN: Alright, here's the next chapter. Cheers - MB  
_

* * *

Hours later, Harry was standing in the _HMIS_ _Elizabeth I_, looking down at a map, as the holographic representations of Staples and Sulu looked on.

Harry had been replaced as the Queen's companion by a hastily-gathered protocol team, including the Prime Minister, and he was now on his way back to Harrisburg. On the way, however, Staples and Sulu had hailed him, giving him reports on minor skirmishes all over their holdings. Like Harry, they had felt that the situation was unusual, since many of the skirmishes made no sense.

Harry was currently glancing at the reported areas, and found himself confused and concerned.

None of the attacked areas were of any major importance. That was very unlike the Death Eaters' normal _modus operandi_ of hitting everything vital in one major blitz. What was even more worrisome was that, despite the fact that most of the targets were mere outposts, none took losses or were captured.

Harry briefly heard a dim bell sound through the intercom, telling them it was 3:00 PM. They'd been in the air for an hour and a half, already. Harrisburg would be plainly visible in about fifteen minutes.

Looking up to Sulu and Staples, Harry sighed. "Anything else?" he gave up the raids as a bad job. Or, at least, he would postpone a more in-depth analysis until he was in his office, where he could take his time and stare at the wall-covering map that took up his west wall.

Sulu shook his head, while Staples grunted in the negative. Harry nodded. "Good. Now then, what can you tell me about the—"

Whatever he'd been about to ask was drowned out as an alarm klaxon went off shrilly. Harry looked around wildly as the room was bathed in a red light, while Sulu and Staples immediately started shouting for explanations.

"Report!" barked Harry.

One of the crewmen turned to him slightly from his post at the Radar. "Sir, incoming Code Red transmission from Panama City!"

Harry paled. Was the Queen alright? "Patch it through!"

As the crewman did so, Harry heard the tell-tale explosions and whizzes of spells and bullets being exchanged.

"_Repeat, Code Red!_" the transmission went static for a moment.

"_Have…ambushed…overwhelmed…forces…Queen…secure…Requesting…safety!_"

Harry watched in horror as a scream ripped through the channel, before it finally went dead.

'Dear god…' he thought. '_NO!_'

Spinning on his heel, Harry pointed to the steering crew. "Turn this ship around! Have all units return to Panama City! Full speed ahead!"

* * *

Elizabeth screamed as her two Crown Guardsmen were cut down as they bravely tried to block their aggressors' path to the Queen.

She watched the two red-cloaked men fall limply to the ground as a gush of blood erupted from both men's front.

She watched in horror as the black-clad Death Eaters advanced menacingly, and was further shocked when the two Crown Guards tried to hold back the Death Eaters by grabbing at their robes. One of the duo afforded himself a look towards Elizabeth.

"Your Majesty! _RUN!_" he yelled, shortly before the Death Eater he was holding back sent a Cutting Curse at his head, decapitating him.

The man's shout seemed to bring Elizabeth out of her shock, and the young Queen turned and fled as the Death Eaters swore aloud and ran after her. They swore as three more Guardsmen jumped into their path, having just arrived at the scene.

"Stand and die, Death Eater scum!" shouted the leader of the newly arrived trio, waving his magic-enhanced Beetle Pike, marking him as a Sergeant.

As the Sergeant and one of his men surged forward, the remaining man turned quickly towards Elizabeth. "Quickly, Your Majesty! Get towards the Airfield!"

Elizabeth had tears running down her cheeks as she nodded and watched the brave Guardsmen rush blindly into the enemy, all of them knowing they had no chance of surviving.

Elizabeth turned and ran once more, trying to ignore the screams of pain she knew came from her brave, if suicidal, Guardsmen.

As she ran down the streets, she took in the chaos that was afflicting the city. Somehow, the Death Eaters had managed to pull off a total attack on the Confederate capital, and the Confederate Army, the police, and even the very citizens of the city were now in the streets, fighting the Death Eaters, who seemed to be able to stand their ground.

She quickly jumped out of the way as a building was hit with a Reductor, causing large chunks of cement to fall down. She watched, helplessly, as Death Eaters surrounded and butchered five policemen. It was chaos; it was carnage.

It was the Death Eaters' revenge for the Confederacy rejecting their offer of an alliance.

* * *

Severus Snape was currently doing away with two Death Eaters when he saw the young, redheaded woman run past him. He'd been shocked at seeing _her_ in this dismal hell, and had momentarily wondered if he could have mistaken her, but immediately shot that idea down. He was an ex-spy. He was trained to observe and remember. And he remembered that face.

Elizabeth III, Queen of the British Empire.

Snape idly wondered what she was doing in the middle of the Confederate capital, which was currently undergoing its first siege ever.

Casting two Sectumsempra spells, he didn't even bother to look as the two Death Eaters fell, huge gashes going from shoulder to opposite thigh. He turned to watch Elizabeth, eyes narrowing as she went into an alley. Digging through his memories, he tried to remember where that particular alley led. His eyes widened as he saw numerous Death Eaters follow her into the alley, and suddenly remembered that it was a dead end.

"SHITE!" He cursed as he ran towards Dumbledore, whom he saw stunning three Death Eaters.

"DUMBLEDORE!" he yelled. Once he'd grasped the man's attention, he quickly explained what was going on.

However, the ex-Headmaster of Hogwarts shocked Snape with his decision.

"Let them kill her," he told his ex-Potions Teacher, who looked horrified and shocked at such an order. "Without the Queen, the Empire crumbles, and we can become, once more, the leading faction of the Light."

Snape swelled with rage at this. "This is no time to play politics, Dumbledore!" he raged. "We're talking about a teenage girl!"

Dumbledore hardened his stare at Snape. "You will not interfere, Severus. I will not allow this faction to keep existing. The British Empire should have died the same day its Muggle counterpart did."

Snape glared furiously at the man, cursing him silently for his power plays. Not for the first or last time, he deeply regretted ever entering into his service.

* * *

She panicked when she saw her pursuers gaining on her and, in a wild attempt to get away, ducked into an alley. She immediately knew she'd made a mistake when she saw the wall at the end of the alley. A dead end.

Still, she ran right for it and turned to see the Death Eaters reaching the alleyway's mouth. Even though they were masked, she could tell they were smiling evilly. It practically radiated from them.

"No more running, girl," hissed the leader. "Now, give up and you won't be hurt _as_ much, or you can fight back and I _promise_ you we'll hurt you as much as possible."

Elizabeth's answer was direct, informative, and very descriptive, if anatomically impossible.

"Why you little whore!," seethed the leader. "Fine! You want to hurt? I'll show you hurt! _CRUCIO!_"

Elizabeth screamed as the vivid red curse hit her, overloading her nerves with pain. To her credit, however, she did not scream wildly, or twitched that much, having been put under the Cruciatus back in prison.

This, however, seemed to irritate the leader, who'd wanted her to scream herself hoarse.

He snarled as he cut off the spell and, taking a minute to have a breather, prepared to launch the curse at the Queen once more.

"_CRUCIO!_"

Elizabeth watched in morbid fascination as the red beam came right at her, and promptly shut her eyes, preparing herself mentally for the newest onslaught.

But it never came.

"_What in the world…—_" she heard the leader cry, making her open her eyes slightly in order to see what was going on.

She felt her jaw drop.

Standing protectively over her battered body was a woman with flowing, waist-length red hair. Though she couldn't see her face, she did see that she was wearing a black, sleeveless leather vest, a flowing, black, tail garment that was tucked into her belt, and wore leather gloves.

"Who are you?" demanded the leader of the Death Eaters, seething. "How _dare_ you interrupt?"

The redheaded woman ignored him and turned her head slightly towards the Queen, allowing Elizabeth to see kindly brown eyes looking back at her.

"Are you alright, Your Majesty?" asked the woman. Elizabeth felt herself holding her breath. The voice was musical. She merely nodded, and was rewarded with a smile that made her heart skip a beat. "Good."

The redheaded woman then turned her attention back onto the leader, who was fuming at being ignored. "Leave," she ordered them simply.

The leader gaped at her before breaking into laughter. "You can't be serious? A _woman_? Telling me to _leave_?" he asked incredulously. "You must not know your place!"

Elizabeth watched as the redheaded woman did nothing but simply stand there.

"I'll give you one last chance," warned the woman. "Leave now."

"Or else what?" sneered the man.

"Or else you get to share the fate of your friends," came a low, dangerous, male voice from behind him.

The leader whirled around to see two men, dressed in similar black Victorian attire. One of them had dark hair and was twirling his wand in one hand, while the other was holding up a deceased Death Eater by the back of his robes. The leader could see the blood dripping from his comrade's mask. The other man, with fair hair, on the other hand, had no wand out, which surprised him, until he noticed that the man's hands were fully drenched in blood, with drops falling every few seconds onto the floor eerily.

The leader was momentarily scared, but crushed it under his need to return successful and shot his free hand into his robes. Instantly, about thirty Death Eaters appeared between him and the duo, with five more appearing before the redheaded woman.

Sneering, the man ordered, "_ATTACK!_"

Almost as one, the Death Eaters surged forward silently, wands high as they prepared to shoot off spells.

Most of them never got such a chance.

Instantly, the manly duo moved to meet the Death Eaters head on. The fair-haired one jumped right at the Death Eaters, his mouth twisted into a feral smile as he punched out.

The dark haired one, on the other hand, merely used excellent footwork in order to dodge the incoming spells at the last minute, while always keeping up a steady stream of curses that Elizabeth was _sure_ had to be questionable in legality.

Almost within five seconds of the fight having started, nearly fifteen Death Eaters lay dead or incapacitated at the duo's feet.

The five who dealt with the redheaded woman, on the other hand, were all simply dead, their heads and different limbs twisted at impossible angles. Elizabeth had watched, horrified, as the woman she'd regarded as an angel simply killed them by breaking their bones with her bare hands. What had surprised her more, however, was the fact that none of the Death Eaters had screamed.

The leader of the Death Eaters, for his part, merely sneered and shot his hand back into his robes, causing double the amount of Death Eaters from before to appear. Elizabeth could see the worry on the redhead's face and decided that this was most definitely _not_ good.

The redhead seemed to agree, as she dashed back to Elizabeth and grabbed her by the arm. "Come on!" she urged urgently. "We can't take on this many in such closed space."

Elizabeth nodded absently and allowed herself to be quite unceremoniously dragged through the crowd of Death Eaters as her redhead companion tore a path through.

Midway through the crowd of silent, yet still dangerous Death Eaters, the two women met up with the male duo, who were also working their way towards them.

"Sirius, Remus! We need to get out of here!" cried the redhead as they came into view.

"Agreed," answered the man called Sirius, dryly. "Problem is, luv, _how_?"

The fair headed man looked around him for a minute before turning his attention back to his comrades. "I could tear a way through," he suggested.

His two companions nodded and grabbed Elizabeth, all the while shooting spells to keep the Death Eaters back. They all found it somewhat eerie that none had made a sound so far.

The two fighters carried Elizabeth between them as the man called Remus apparently used his bare hands to cause massive damage to the Death Eaters, astounding Elizabeth with his sheer strength.

"How does he _do_ that?" she asked, amazed.

Sirius stayed quiet, eyes firmly to the front, but the woman smiled at her. "Remus is a werewolf," she explained as they kept running after their comrade. Elizabeth felt her jaw drop at this. She'd heard of them from her tutors, but she'd never actually thought she'd _meet_ one!

The trio slowly made their way towards the alley's mouth, and could hear the leader raging at his men to capture the foursome. The man called Remus finally broke through, however, when he plunged his stiff, upright hand into one of the Death Eaters' stomachs.

As the man keeled over, Remus led his three companions out of the alley, only to be lifted off their feet as a stray Reductor from one of the many other duels hit the ground near them.

Initially, Elizabeth felt disoriented and thought she'd gone death, with how little she could hear. To her relief, however, the deafness went away after a bit, but she still couldn't help coughing as debris fell around her. A large cloud of dust pervaded the area, and yet still she could hear the fighting going on around her.

"Your Majesty!" she heard. She recognized it as the woman's voice. "Your Majesty, where are you?"

"O-Over here!" replied Elizabeth, coughing.

Slowly, a figure crawled towards her, and Elizabeth recognized the woman by her dark, red hair.

"Your Majesty!" exclaimed the woman in relief. "Are you alright?"

"Not for long," came a chillingly evil voice.

Elizabeth and her companion turned their eyes to the front, where they saw one Death Eater approach them, wand pointed at Elizabeth.

Elizabeth saw the woman try to get to her feet, and was horrified to see a large gash go along the length of her left tibia. She ultimately failed, however, and fell back to the ground heavily. Not relenting for a moment, she began crawling towards Elizabeth, her eyes desperate.

"Stay away from her!" shouted the woman as she tried to come nearer to Elizabeth.

The Death Eater looked at her for a moment before shrugging. "Fine. I don't need distance, anyway," he told them nonchalantly, raising his wand in the process. "_Sectumsempra!_"

Elizabeth dimly heard the woman scream as she watched the jet of purple light hurtle towards her, coming nearer with every second. She slowly closed her eyes, trying to prepare herself mentally for the pain that was to come, and her subsequent death.

For a moment, Elizabeth regretted ever being born as the child of the Prince of Wales. If she'd been given a choice, she would have rather been born to a family of farmers, or even police officers. But not Royalty. Never Royalty.

Just as quickly as the thought came, however, it was rapidly replaced by the memory of seeing her Guardsmen die for her. All had looked at her with a similar expression before running to stall the Death Eaters futilely. It was an expression she needed no words of explanation to recognize. She knew exactly what they were telling her.

_Earn this._

In a unified, silent cry, her dead Guardsmen had all agreed on this. They had given their lives up for a throne that had stood empty for five years, tormenting them with its vacancy. None had gone reluctantly against the Death Eaters. They had completely and totally agreed to fight to the death out of their own volition.

_Honour us._

She could practically hear the Guardsmen talking to her and, for a moment, she could have sworn she'd seen their ghostly images appear before her, protecting her as always, defiant to the end against her enemies.

Just as quickly as the ghostly apparitions showed up, however, they disappeared as her vision cleared, and were replaced by a familiar red coat, whose coattails were flapping in the wind.

The soldier before her had his wand outstretched in his right hand, while his left held a rifle. However, what identified him to her was the _very_ familiar sabre hanging at the man's belt.

"Harry!" she cried in relief.

Harry allowed himself a sigh of relief as he saw the Queen alive and well, and turned quickly back to his opponent, who'd managed to dodge the reflected _Sectumsempra_.

Raising his left arm, Harry allowed his wand to slide back into his sleeve as he brought up the rifle single-handedly. Taking quick, casual aim, Harry fired off the rifle at the Death Eater, who was knocked onto his back as the bullet hit him straight in the forehead. The Reductor spell blew the man back.

Unfortunately, the mask seemed to do its job, as the Death Eater got back onto his feet, Harry's bullet lodged firmly in the mask.

"Damn," muttered Harry. He dropped the rifle and drew his rapier, as well as his wand.

Harry saw the Death Eater slowly raise his hand to his mask, and soon had it off.

Harry raised an eyebrow as the face of Rodolphus Lestrange came into view. He now knew why the mask had been stronger than the typical ones—he was an Inner Circle Death Eater. One Harry was _very_ familiar with.

Almost subconsciously, Harry slid his feet into an appropriate stance as Rodolphus touched his forehead lightly and then drew back his hand, looking curiously at the blood on it. Even if it hadn't penetrated the mask, the indentation had been enough to pierce superficial skin.

Raising his eyes back towards Harry, the Lestrange patriarch grinned insanely as he brought out his tongue and licked his own blood off his fingers, as one would lick ice cream on a cone. While Elizabeth looked sick, Harry remained impassive.

"It's been a while, Potter," remarked Rodolphus as he brought up his wand. "Three years?"

"Two years, you lunatic," corrected Harry.

Rodolphus merely smiled evilly. "How's the leg?" he asked nastily.

Harry forced himself to not remember that particular duel, where Rodolphus had managed to send a bone-breaking curse at his left femur. The break had been so bad that Harry had been evacuated from the field, and there'd been a moment where the possibility of him losing his leg became _very_ real. Fortunately, they'd managed to repair the damage, but Harry still had a nasty scar near the middle, where one fragment had ripped through the skin.

"Better," was all that Harry replied. He then returned the smile as he asked, "How's the family?"

Rodolphus glared furiously at the question. Just before he'd been evacuated, Harry had sent a Castrating hex against Rodolphus, allowing the Imperials to flee while the Death Eaters tended to their wounded leader.

"You'll pay dearly for that, Potter!" spat Rodolphus.

Harry shrugged uncaringly. "It's not my fault you can't get it up," he remarked absently, before giving the Death Eater a sudden, surprised look. "Oh, wait, yes it is!" he mocked.

Howling in rage, Rodolphus sent a Reductor curse at Harry, who expertly side-stepped it and sent back his own Reductor.

Rodolphus wordlessly batted away the spell with a glare. Once more, their fight had started as a deadlock. For a moment, Elizabeth swore they would simply walk away, before Rodolphus suddenly took a step forward, spun on his foot, and snapped his wand towards Harry, letting loose a slicing curse.

Expertly, Harry put up a shield, which took care of the curse, and threw back a heavily powered bludgeoning hex. Rodolphus quickly put up a shield, but the hex was powerful enough that it blasted right through, knocking the Lestrange patriarch back.

Harry watched, impassively, as Rodolphus hurtled into a pile of debris. His impact caused quite a stir of dust to rise, so he wasn't exactly sure whether that had been the end of it.

"Is he dead?"

Harry stayed impassive, despite hearing his Queen's question. Just then, Harry swore he saw some movement within the dust cloud, and squinted to see what was going on.

His eyes widened as he saw a sickly green jet of light rushing towards him. "Get down!" he shouted at Elizabeth as he put up his sword in a guard. The Killing Curse hit the sword dead on, causing it to crumble to pieces. Harry sighed in exasperation. Why did the blade of this sword _always_ shatter? This was the seventh time!

"Damn," Harry heard Rodolphus state as the Death Eater walked out of the dust cloud. "Got your sword again."

Harry glared. "Obviously, your aim hasn't improved in two years, Lestrange. Syphilis finally screw with your head?"

Rodolphus shrugged off the insult before breaking into a run, heading for Harry. The young Duke got into an appropriate stance and, wand aloft, quickly muttered four spells, each affecting a separate limb.

It was just in time, too, because Rodolphus had closed the distance impossibly fast. Harry knew better, however, as he blocked Rodolphus' two fists. He'd fought Rodolphus before, and thus knew that the Lestrange patriarch was an avid user of the _Curro_ Charm, also known as the Speed-Enhancing Charm. With it, the Death Eater would increase his limb speed tenfold, with the only consequences being numbed pain in his limbs afterwards.

Holstering his wand, so as to make sure it wouldn't get broken, Harry used his own fists to deflect Rodolphus' barrage of punches. Like his previous duel against Lestrange, Harry was initially being pushed back, with the young Duke merely acting on the defensive.

Harry, however, knew Rodolphus' greatest flaw—lack of endurance. For all the man's use of the _Curro_ Charm, his body had not been conditioned for its extended use. And, while a magnificent duellist, Rodolphus knew Harry was one as well, and so banked on getting through the Duke's significantly weaker physical defences.

Unfortunately for the Lestrange patriarch, Harry had learned his lesson from their previous duel. While Rodolphus had managed to break through his defences two years ago, Harry had conditioned himself enough to use the _Curro_ Charm for at least the same amount of time as Rodolphus.

Thus, the two found themselves locked in a close-quarters fist fight, with Harry deflecting and delivering just as many punches as Rodolphus was.

The Death Eater managed to break the deadlock, however, by suddenly bringing up his leg in a kick that got Harry in his left side. Flinching and grunting in pain, Rodolphus used the opportunity to bring down a fist into Harry's back, knocking the Duke onto his knees, before ramming up his knee into Harry's face.

Elizabeth watched in horror as Harry was flipped onto his back by the intensity of that last attack, his forehead bleeding as the skin cracked from the intensity of the blow. She was relieved, however, when the Field Marshall rolled out of the way as Rodolphus' foot came down, narrowly avoiding getting his throat crushed.

Getting back to his feet, Harry drew his wand and angrily fired off four Cutting Curses, two of which struck home, causing Rodolphus to bleed severely on his right arm and left leg.

Rodolphus howled in pain as the curses hit him, and tried to fire of his own counterattack. Harry expertly ducked underneath the blood red spells that hurtled above him and fired back another Cutting Curse, this time striking Rodolphus' stomach.

Rodolphus gasped in pain as the curse struck him, but quickly turned it into a glare as he looked at the equally battered Harry.

"This isn't over, Potter," spat Rodolphus. Harry returned the sneer.

"Definitely. Next time, I'll see you in a body bag, Lestrange."

With a final glare, Rodolphus tapped his left arm with his wand, where the Dark Mark usually was, and soon disappeared in a black explosion of light.


	7. Chapter V: Cause and Effect

_AN: Yeah, no real action here. Just your basic aftermath after a big fight. Cheers -- MB._

* * *

Harry finally dropped to his knees, gasping in pain as the hurt from his forehead, back, _and_ side came hurtling all over again. Elizabeth, for her part, rushed up to him, barely noticing the fact that hundreds of Imperial soldiers were now streaming through the streets, rushing every which way.

Once she'd reached him, she knelt by his side and forced him onto his back, putting his head on her lap as she tried to determine how badly he was wounded. Looking up, she finally noticed the Imperial soldiers running around.

"DOCTOR!" She yelled. "I NEED A DOCTOR OVER HERE!"

Almost instantly, a man in a red coat, with a white band with a red cross and two wands crossing underneath it on the left arm, came running up to her, and gasped when he saw his patient. Turning around, he yelled, "The Duke is down! Get me a stretcher!"

Yells of disbelief answered his announcement, but soon enough, a stretcher arrived. The medic, however, wasn't paying attention as he brought out his wand and started treating Harry's wounds. Cursing, the doctor looked up to one of the stretcher-bearers, who were looking at Harry with _very_ worried looks.

"I need an Anti-Concussion Draught!" snapped the medic. "Quickly now!"

The junior of the stretcher bearers ran off to get the desired potion, while Elizabeth looked at the medic disbelievingly. "You mean you don't have them?" she asked, incredulous.

"Can't carry everything, I'm afraid," replied the doctor absently as he took out a morphine syrette, bit on the protective plastic, and then plunged the uncovered needle into Harry's thigh. "We don't expect many of our wounded to be suffering from concussions. Bullet wounds, spell wounds, cuts, bruises, missing limbs—yes, but not _concussions_, of all things!" he muttered as he put his wand to the head injury and started mumbling softly, making the tip of the wand glow a soft white light.

"You use Gifted _and_ Ungifted medicine?" asked Elizabeth, shocked.

The medic smiled ruefully. "Were it up to me, Your Majesty, I wouldn't use Gifted methods," he admitted, never taking his eyes from his work. "Personally, I find the Ungifted methods far less barbaric. Magic imposes a cure on the body, whereas the Ungifted have found a way to make the body heal _itself_. I find that far more noteworthy."

Elizabeth nodded before freezing. That last comment had reminded her of her previous companions. Looking around, she saw all three of them lying face down amongst the rubble. The woman's typically fiery red hair had even had a layer of dust covering it, hiding its normal red lushness.

Pointing at them, Elizabeth got up and ordered the stretcher bearers. "Quickly, bring those three over here!"

"Yes, your Majesty," was all the men replied as they made their way towards the three downed civilians.

"Your Majesty," the medic spoke up, his eyes narrowed from squinting as he kept repairing the delicate wound in Harry's forehead. "I'll not be able to treat them—not if you want the Duke to make it."

"It's that bad?"

The medic nodded. "At first glance, it won't look that bad. But this forehead wound managed to slightly crack the skull. The wound to his side broke a couple of ribs, as well, and I'm pretty sure that they may have cause minor internal damage," he told her. "Was he hit anywhere else?" he asked.

"The back," she replied quickly, fretting over her mentor.

"Middle or sides?"

Elizabeth racked her brain for the memory, before answering, "Right side."

The medic sighed in relief. "Probably not major damage, then. Had he been hit in the middle, there could have been damage to his nervous system, and if hit on the left, it could have hurt the heart."

Elizabeth paled at this. Such a casual thing as location of a wound could have determined whether or not Harry would have had _heart_ damage? It shook her to know how close it had been.

Her attention was redirected to her companions, however, as they were laid next to Harry. Glancing momentarily off his work, the medic looked at them and grimaced. "I can see several things wrong with them," he told the Queen as he got back to work. "But like I said, Your Majesty, the Duke comes first."

Elizabeth looked at her unconscious friends nervously before looking up at the medic. "If you had an assistant, could you do it?" she asked suddenly.

The medic was silent for a moment before nodding. "Yes. But I don't. Not even an Ungifted one."

"I can do it," stated Elizabeth firmly. The medic looked at her, aghast. "I can _do_ it!" she repeated. "Just tell me what to do!"

"But…Your Majesty…" protested the medic, who looked appalled at the idea of having the _Queen_ get her hands dirty with blood.

"We're _ordering _you to tell us what to do, doctor!" hissed Elizabeth as she rolled up her dress' sleeves and knelt next to the first of her companions, the dark-haired man called Sirius.

The medic hesitated for a moment before nodding and getting back to work. "Very well. First things, first, though. Get yourself a pair of gloves, Your Majesty," he told her. "There are some in my kit."

Elizabeth was immediately passed a pair of gloves from the stretcher-bearer nearest to the medic's kit, which she rapidly put on. At the snapping sound of her hand letting go of her gloves, the medic continued.

"Now, check the body for any unusual lumps or indentations. Make sure to clear the dust off them _very_ gently."

Elizabeth did so. Soon, she noticed that the right arm was actually twisted at an unnatural angle.

"Broken arm," was all the medic said at the description. "Any protrusions?"

Elizabeth checked. "None."

The medic nodded. "Good, it may yet be a clean one. Is the arm inflated in any way?"

"No."

"Good, so it shouldn't be that hard to reset it," he muttered. "Stretcher-bearers!" he barked. "Set the Queen's patient's bone into appropriate position and put a splint on it."

As he heard the men do as they were told, the medic returned his absent attention to the Queen. "Any reddening of the skin? Deep reddening, that is."

"None."

"Good. Move on to the next one, then," he told her, before nodding to the stretcher-bearers. They put Sirius on a stretcher and carried him off to the nearest medical tent.

She looked down and saw that it was Remus.

"He's a werewolf," she told the medic, who stopped healing Harry's side to look at the Queen in amazement.

"Is he, now?" he asked. At her nod, he called for the stretcher-bearers, who came immediately. "Get the man to the nearest Lycanthrope Clinic," he told them, pointing at the werewolf.

Obediently, the men put the fair-haired werewolf on the stretcher and carried him off to the clinic.

She was now left with the young woman, who looked as if she was peacefully sleeping.

Lifting his eyes momentarily from the wound in the Duke's side, the medic began, "Now, have you checked…" the words died off as he lay eyes on the woman, finally taking a good look at her.

"Doctor?" asked Elizabeth, concerned.

"Buggering hell," swore the medic in amazement as he looked at the dust-covered woman. "It can't be!"

"Doctor?" repeated Elizabeth.

Looking up at the Queen, the medic kept his look of amazement. "Y-Your Majesty?"

"Is something wrong?" asked the young Queen.

The medic looked at the young woman, then at Harry, and back at the young woman.

"Merlin's _balls_," the medic swore again. "I don't believe it! She's alive!"

"_Who_?" asked the Queen, now getting slowly irritated.

Looking at the young woman, the doctor replied. "The Lady Ginevra Molly Potter," he told her. "The Duke's lost wife."

Elizabeth felt her jaw drop.

* * *

"What the hell were you thinking, Dumbledore?" demanded Snape a couple of hours later, in the Order's new Headquarters, which were located in the new Weasley home. "Preventing me from helping the Imperial Queen? Do you _want_ us to get killed?"

"You cannot speak to the Headmaster that way!" objected Hestia Jones furiously.

"Headmaster of what, exactly?" put in Frank Longbottom, who was glaring at Dumbledore openly. He'd heard about the 'venerable' wizard's decision moments after it'd been made. The fact that he had a nasty scar crossing his left eye vertically added to the intimidating effect. "Hogwarts is under Death Eater control. He is no longer the Headmaster of anything. The Confederates wouldn't even consider renewing his teaching license, for Merlin's sake!"

"That Muggle is a hindrance!" furiously noted Ron Weasley. "As is that entire faction! They must be eliminated!"

"And how exactly do you suggest we do that?" shot back Tonks. "They have _legions_ of men and women fanatically loyal at their disposal! In fact, unlike _us_, they actually have _lands_ of their own! We're mere refugees!"

"Details," growled Ron. "They didn't manage to defend the city, now did they?"

"They had inside help and you know it!" riposted Tonks, who looked ready to curse the redhead where he stood. "The Confederate Defence System is second only to that on the NLBF's homeland!"

"Which reminds me," interrupted Arthur Weasley, who was trying to defuse the situation before he lost _another_ son. "Has anyone here managed to get their Visa to Harrisburg approved?"

When the entirety of the Order shook their heads, Arthur sighed. "It seems they weren't bluffing, then."

"What do you mean?" asked McGonagall.

Arthur raked his thinning hair with his hand nervously. "Bad news, I'm afraid. A notice was passed out at work today. It seems that we've all been blacklisted."

Dumbledore, who'd been silent for the majority of the debate, now focused his gaze on Arthur. "Explain yourself, Arthur."

Arthur sighed. "It was announced that, under the newest law passed at the Senate and in the Imperial Parliaments in emergency sessions, the Order of the Phoenix was officially outlawed, and all its members were to turn themselves immediately," he told the group, all of whom gasped in horror. Arthur paused for a moment, before continuing. "I fear that the Imperial and Confederate governments are in accord that we are the reason the Death Eaters managed to mount an attack on this city. I expect I'll be fired soon, as a result."

"Preposterous!" scoffed Diggle. "How dare they presume we'd work with Death Eaters?"

"Have we not two in our employ?" remarked Shacklebolt softly. "Did we not turn on and capture an Imperial garrison in the past?"

That shut up Diggle, but Shacklebolt continued. "I fear that perhaps the Confederacy may be correct in viewing us as likely candidates in this treachery. Our past," here he glared at Dumbledore, "does not help us. Indeed, it condemns us."

Most of the other ex-Aurors nodded at their leader's assessment. A great majority of them, in fact, were getting tired of the Order, but remained out of respect to Shacklebolt, Frank Longbottom, and Mad-Eye Moody.

"Now, now, Kingsley," soothed Dumbledore. "I'm sure the two are merely overreacting. Give it a few days, and this will all blow over…"

"_BLOW OVER?_" yelled Frank as he menacingly stepped forward once. "Like that time we gave the Death Eaters Harry's location?" he yelled. "Do you remember how well _that_ blew over?"

Frank slammed his open hands on Dumbledore's desk, his face a mask of fury and vindictive rage—a fact that made Dumbledore draw back in surprise. "I lost my _wife_ and _son_ during the coup, Dumbledore," he hissed. "My face is _scarred_ from trying to fight them off, only to see Alice fall, and knowing my son was on the Potter lad's ship!" he reminded the older wizard. "You cost me my family, Dumbledore. _MY ENTIRE FAMILY!_" he roared. "And you want to justify your betrayals by saying they'll _blow over_?"

Silence permeated the room as Frank finished his tirade, his cheeks sparkling with furious tears. Silently, Shacklebolt and Dawlish moved forward and grabbed their comrade comfortingly by the shoulders, drawing him back towards the Aurors, all of whom were giving Frank words of courage and sympathy.

Shacklebolt, however, turned midway, and glared at the older wizard. "You've cost me and my men too high a price, Dumbledore," he said through gritted teeth. "Your noble little war has caused more orphans, widows, and widowers than the bloody war against Grindelwald!" Dumbledore flinched violently as he felt as if he'd been slapped at Shacklebolt's accusation. "Either you get your act together and start making better judgements, or I'll withdraw the Aurors' support from the Order."

With that, Shacklebolt nodded to his men tightly, and the remainders of the now-defunct Auror Corps Apparated away.

As soon as they were away, Ron snorted disdainfully. "Can you believe Longbottom's nerve? Pinning all that on the Headmaster!"

Any further comments, however, were silenced immediately as a resounding CRACK resounded through the room. Upon closer observation, all saw that the noise had originated from Ron. Or rather, from Ron's cheek, which was extremely red as the redhead's eyes widened. He sputtered at his assailant, who looked completely unrepentant.

"I cannot believe you, Ronald Weasley!" hissed Hermione furiously. "How you can be so callous, it boggles even _my_ mind!"

Ron reddened furiously and made as if to draw his wand when he felt a pointed pressure poking painfully at his neck. Looking sideways, he saw Snape had drawn his wand, as had Draco Malfoy, and both were holding their wands at Ron's neck.

"Don't try it, Weasley," sneered Snape. "I happen to agree with Granger."

Even Draco, who'd only reformed hours prior to the coup, nodded, much to Hermione and Ron's shock. "That was some veritable stupidity you showed there, Weasel," added the blonde man. "Longbottom's lost everything in his life. His wife, his son, his home, his hope. You've obviously lost nothing you've ever cared about!" he spat.

Ron glared at the two Slytherins. "Oh yeah? What about my brothers? Don't they count?"

Hermione snorted disbelievingly. "Oh please, Ron! Spare us!" she bit out. "When you heard that Charlie, Bill, _and_ the twins had gone over to the Imperial side, you practically disowned them!" she reminded him, causing him to flush angrily.

"You didn't disagree at the time," he sneered at her.

Hermione sniffed disdainfully. "Nor did I agree. I have my issues with the Empire and their methods, but I respected that your brothers and sister _chose_ their path."

"Wrong though it may be, Miss Granger?" interrupted Dumbledore.

Hermione glared at Dumbledore—a feat none would have thought possible, what with her hero-worship of authority figures. "Don't attempt to drown the issue in semantics, Headmaster." Even at the point of rebelling, Hermione couldn't drop the formalities. "I've never condemned the Empire as the wrong side—merely the misguided ones. But, seeing their successes compared to our own, I'm beginning to wonder as to the veracity of that view."

"Factionalism is what has driven the Light to this deplorable state," Dumbledore reminded her. "Had it not been for the Empire, we—"

"Would be far worse off!" snapped Snape. "Get over your own worship, Dumbledore! Without the Empire, we'd be fifty thousand times worse! The Death Eater army would be nothing short of huge, and the Light would never stand a chance!"

"Surely you exagger—"

"Oh, Albus, _shut up and listen_!" shrieked McGonagall, shocking everyone present. Minerva McGonagall had _always_ been Dumbledore's second in command and fiercest supporter, after all. Glaring at the older wizard, she continued. "You know damn well that Severus is _not_ exaggerating! You saw the reports yourself! Without the RNA, Serpent Fortress would have been used as a staging area against Hogwarts! Without the Imperials, Diagon Alley would have been destroyed years ago! In fact," noted the austere Professor. "The _one_ time the Imperials never showed up was the day of the coup!"

"Too right."

"Hmm."

"She's right!"

"Bloody hell, why didn't I see it?"

A cacophony of similar statements rose up from the group as Dumbledore and his dwindling faction (consisting now only of him, Molly, Ron, and a few of the younger Order members) tried to fervently deny these observations. Eventually, it was not Dumbledore who brought order back, but rather Snape, who shot sparks from his wand.

"Unfortunately, the Headmaster is right about something," the Potions Master stated silkily. "Factionalism _has_ been the cause of our rather deplorable, present state."

Dumbledore beamed at Snape, hoping to be vindicated by the man. He was, unfortunately, deeply disappointed when Snape turned to him with a sneer.

"That is why I petition the Order to vote for the official dissolution of the Order of the Phoenix," he announced, amidst the shocked shouts of the group.

"Factionalism _has_ brought the Light down, but we can redeem ourselves now by working with the Empire towards an end to this war!" agreed tiny professor Flitwick.

"The Imperials will sooner throw us all into jail!" reminded Ron. "Or worse, hung!"

"Not if we turn ourselves in and admit our guilt," countered Hermione. "And even less if we offer to work with them!"

"The Imperials are bloodthirsty murderers!" shrieked Molly. "Look at Serpent Fortress! Look at Diagon Alley!"

"Extreme times require extreme measures!" snapped Snape. "Because of those two events, the Death Eaters had their plans thrown back a year!"

"We cannot join with the Imperial government," stated Dumbledore firmly. "We would be hung before dawn, and the Light cannot afford to lose us,"

McGonagall glared at her long-time friend. "You mean, it can't afford to lose _you_," she corrected tersely. "Albus, we're sick and tired of losing and hindering the wrong people! For Merlin's sake, Albus, we're practically _helping_ the Death Eaters!"

"Minerva!" shrieked Molly. "How can you say such a thing?"

"Because it's true," came Malfoy's unexpected reply. As all the attention redirected to the ex-Death Eater, Malfoy elaborated. "We've been continuously giving the Death Eaters the locations of whatever Imperial fortress we can find. Sydney and Ottawa were practically our _tribute_ to the Council of Death," he noted tersely. "Because of that, there's been little to no Light support from any Imperial country, and much less any volunteers for the Order. The world _loathes_ the Order. We're the cause of its destruction. Not the Death Eaters, and certainly not the Imperials."

"Our best bet, then, is to do away with the Order, and thus start our way into getting ourselves back into the world's good graces," summed up Snape. The rest of the Order, minus Dumbledore and his few remaining followers, were looking in awe at the two redeemed ex-Death Eaters.

The fighting amongst the group raged on for hours as both the dissenters and Dumbledore's supporters clashed verbally over the Order's existence. Eventually, however, it slowly became obvious that the dissenting voices began to overtake Dumbledore's supporters, especially after Frank Longbottom was informed of the conflict and came back with the Aurors, lending his support to the dissenters.

Soon enough, a vote was called when Frank slammed his hand onto the round desk around which the Order congregated and gave an ultimatum: either a vote was called, or Frank pulled the Aurors from the Order and went to the authorities with Dumbledore's complicity in the coup, and during the attack on Panama City.


	8. Chapter VI: Reunion

_AN: Here's Chapter VI, Reunion. Bear in mind, this was not one of my favourite chapters, if only because I'm not satisfied with the reunion scenes. I might edit at a later date._

* * *

When Harry woke up, he instantly recognized his surroundings as the _Retaliation_'s medical facilities. Which ultimately led to his wondering how he got there.

Of course, that's when the memories of his fight against Rodolphus came back, and he felt himself wincing as his forehead throbbed with pain. Haltingly bringing up a hand, he tried to touch his wound, only to flinch violently as his fingertips touched the sensitive skin.

As he flinched, he unwillingly moaned in pain, which brought a nearby nurse to his bed.

"Ah, Your Grace, you're awake!" declared the nurse gaily. "I'll just fetch the doctor, then, shall I?" she told him kindly before walking away.

Harry growled unconsciously at this act. He didn't want to be left alone! He wanted answers!

Answers, he thought, that would explain why he had such a big bloody headache!

Groaning again, he let his head fall back onto his pillow roughly.

Bad idea.

Yelping in pain as that brought forth another headache, Harry scowled with his eyes closed. He hadn't thought Rodolphus' blows had hurt him that much during the duel itself. Obviously, he'd underestimated the Death Eater, thinking that, like the rest of the psychotic, megalomaniacal cult, he'd become complacent with his skills and not improve.

Obviously, he'd been wrong.

Sighing in frustration, Harry brought his thoughts back to the current situation. He was incapacitated for Merlin knows how long, his head bloody _hurt_, and he had no idea how long he'd been unconscious.

"Your Grace?"

Harry sighed in relief. That was probably the doctor. "I'm awake, doctor," he informed the man simply.

Opening his eyes slightly, he saw the man nod once and writing something on his clipboard.

"How long have I been out?" asked Harry.

"Two days, Your Grace. Although, one of those days was due to the medication," added the doctor quickly at Harry's look. "You were suffering from serious fractures to your forehead, Your Grace, and the potion wouldn't have had much of an effect if you'd moved around."

Harry nodded contritely. "Any lasting damage?"

The doctor shrugged as he wrote something else on the clipboard. "Unfortunately, we don't know. The fractures were somewhat severe, but as far as we can tell, no lasting damage was done on the brain or the surrounding nerves."

"Where are we?"

"Right above the Confederate Capital, Your Grace. We were granted leave by their Parliament to enter their airspace"

Harry nodded. He recognized the doctor, of course. He was an Ungifted—one that had been the ship's surgeon since the _Retaliation_ first took flight. Thus, he'd been raised with Ungifted medical knowledge, which came with quite a wealth of knowledge concerning the intricate workings of the human anatomy.

"When can I leave?" asked Harry, making the doctor titter. Harry was infamous amongst medical circles for refusing to stay put after being injured, despite the doctors' orders.

"Tomorrow should be fine," said the doctor amusedly. When his countenance changed to seriousness, however, Harry got worried. "Although, I _was_ given orders to inform you of something urgent, Your Grace…"

Harry rose an eyebrow. "What?"

The doctor seemed about to reply when he shut his mouth and seemed to consider something. After about half a minute, he shook his head. "I think it's better if you see this yourself, Your Grace," he said a length, frowning.

Harry raised an eyebrow once more. "I can get up? No, 'If you get up I swear I'll dope you into a mild coma'?" he asked sardonically. The doctor chuckled.

"It's fine. The damage to your forehead and back shouldn't impede your basic motor skills."

"Then why do I have to stay until tomorrow?"

The doctor smirked at Harry's whinging. "Observation purposes, mainly. We don't want you doing anything that might slow down the potion's effect, and this thing I wish to show you is within the confinements of the med bay."

Harry sulked somewhat, making the doctor chuckle once more.

Slowly, the young Duke got to his feet and, accepting a cane from the doctor, followed the man out of his draped-off cubicle. Thankfully, the Imperial reinforcements to the Confederacy had not sustained any serious injuries—completely taking the Death Eaters by surprise by their quick reaction time. As such, the medical bay was devoid of anyone other than Harry, the doctor, and the nurses. Or, at least, that's what Harry assumed, anyway.

He quickly disregarded these assumptions when he noticed they were heading towards another draped-off cubicle.

"Who else got injured?" asked Harry. He paled quickly. "Surely not the Queen?"

The doctor waved off the guess. "No, not Her Majesty. Someone we all thought was dead."

Harry froze at those words, his eyes shot towards the drapes surrounding the cubicle. Immediately, he remembered the words of the Japanese Emperor, and felt a surge of fear, hope, and curiosity shoot through his spine.

Looking at the Duke's reaction, the doctor misinterpreted it for some discomfort, and shook his head. "Maybe we should put this off for another time…" he suggested, but Harry quickly shot that down with a shake of his head.

"No. I…let me see this person," he ordered.

Eyeing Harry concernedly, the doctor nodded and parted the drapes slowly, allowing Harry inside.

Slowly, Harry walked into the cubicle and felt his breath leave him. His cane fell from his limp hands as his eyes bulged at the figure lying on the bed in front of him, red hair fanning out underneath her, forming a sort-of halo.

"Ginny," whispered Harry, moments before his eyes rolled upwards and he fainted dead to the ground.

Moments later, Harry woke up to the horrible smell of salts underneath his nose. Sneezing, he sat up, only to find that he was on the floor, and the doctor, along with several nurses, were crowding around him.

"You fainted," explained the doctor simply. Harry nodded briefly, before freezing.

"Wh—What happened?" he asked groggily. His eyes snapped open as he remembered. "Ginny!"

Instantly, Harry shot to his feet, fighting down the nausea as he got up too fast. Still dizzy, he stumbled his way to his unconscious wife's side. Harry clasped her left hand with both his hands as he leaned over her.

"Ginny?" he asked frantically. "Ginny love, please say something to me!"

The doctor looked sadly at the scene before him. The Iron Duke, Britannia's Scourge, the Restorer of the Throne was, at the moment, nothing more than a heart broken man, pleading pathetically with a person that he knew, personally, would not wake up for a while.

"She's in a mild coma at the moment, Your Grace," the doctor interrupted at length. Harry raised horrified eyes towards the doctor. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, but it seems she hurt herself badly during the battle. We don't expect her to wake up for another week or so."

"But you said she was in a coma! How can you be sure she'll wake up ever again?" asked Harry, who looked heartbroken as he voiced his own worst fears.

"Perhaps I chose the wrong terminology," conceded the doctor after some thought. "You see, she _is_ displaying all the natural signs of a coma, except for the fact that her magic is still functioning, if at an accelerated pace."

Harry looked confused. "What does her magic have to do with the fact that she's in a coma?"

The doctor looked incredulous for a moment, but then realized that the Duke had never taken a thorough medical class in his life. "Magic, Your Grace, is much like blood. If it ever stopped pumping, the human body would eventually cease to function. Magic, however, is not a _vital_ component of the body, as we Ungifted show, but its very 'pumping', so to speak, relies on the brain's constant activity, which tells me that the Duchess is still mentally alive."

Harry let out a sigh of relief. That was always good news. "How long did you say you estimated her to be in this state?"

"About a week, Your Grace," repeated the doctor, now scribbling something on his clipboard as he checked some of the monitors around the Duchess' bed. He absently tapped the IV drip connected to her left arm. It seemed to be transmitting some sort of clear liquid. After looking at its steady flow for a second or so, he scribbled something else on his report. "Assuming, of course, that nothing goes wrong," he added as he wrote down his observations.

"Meaning?" asked Harry, suddenly extremely nervous.

"Coma patients, even Gifted ones, are extremely delicate, Your Grace," explained the doctor. "We must keep them under constant supervision," here he nodded to a nurse who just walked in with a replacement bag for the drip. "One problem we usually find with comatose patients is potential deterioration of their mental capacities if adequate care is not kept."

"What do you mean?"

"Coma patients of your wife's scale, being unable to take care of themselves, require constant attention. If we were to ever stop, the Duchess could easily starve, dehydrate, and/or fall into a deeper coma."

Harry paled. "I see. I hope you'll spare no effort to make sure that doesn't happen?" he asked, a menacing note in his tone.

The doctor gave the Duke an assuring smile. "Of course, Your Grace. She's not just precious to you, after all," he reminded him.

Harry looked confused. "What do you mean?"

The doctor smiled as he turned and grabbed a clipboard hanging from the wall behind Ginny's bed and passed it over to Harry. "That's the visitor's log"

Harry's eyes bulged as he saw nearly nine pages worth of signatures—some even being scribbled outside the charts! He recognized some of the names, too. Neville and Susan had been here at least four times each, and Wolf and Sharpe had been here twice. The rest, he recognized as various members from the former Royal Northern Army.

A few names, in particular, however, snapped his eyes back up to the doctor. "Doctor…" he said slowly, "do we have any visitors on board?"

The doctor smiled at him. "I wondered when you'd find those names," he mused out loud. "They're in the visitor's quarters on deck two," he informed the Duke, only to look up and see that he was already gone. The doctor chuckled as he went back to his inspection. He knew he'd told the Duke not to leave, but he also knew that to stop him would have resulted in his own prolonged stay in the medical bay.

* * *

It took Harry a good thirty minutes to reach the Visitor's Quarters. He'd surprised quite a few people on his way down, including Neville and Susan, both of whom had come with the Imperial reinforcements once the call had been received in Harrisburg about the Queen's danger.

Once Harry reached the desired door, he quickly banged on it repeatedly, ignoring the cries from within to wait. Eventually, the door slid open to reveal an irritated Sirius Black, who looked about to shout at whoever was banging on the door when he caught a good look at his potential victim.

"Harry?" he whispered unbelievingly.

"Sirius!" cried Harry as he launched himself at his presumed-dead godfather.

Sirius let out an unbelieving laugh as he hugged his godson for all he was worth. "Harry, it _is_ you!" he yelled happily.

Harry laughed as he returned the hug, laughing madly in happiness.

Eventually, the two men broke the hug, though both were still grinning widely. Minutes later, however, Sirius realized the scene they were making in public and quickly ushered Harry in, smiling the whole time.

As he led Harry through the narrow hallway that led to the small living room, Sirius bellowed, "Remus! Joachim! Get your arses in here!"

Harry looked wide-eyed at the revelation that more of his family had survived. His grin widened as he saw the fair-haired werewolf and his former aide-de-camps enter the living room. Both men were looking at Sirius curiously for a moment, not recognizing Harry immediately, but then dropped their jaws as recognition finally hit them.

"Harry!" cried Remus as he ran forward and grabbed his surrogate nephew in a tight hug. Blackthorne merely smiled brilliantly as he looked on.

Once Remus disengaged from the hug, Blackthorne stepped up and offered his hand to Harry, who laughed as he shook it.

"Always the professional, eh, Joachim?" he asked laughingly.

Blackthorne merely smiled as he nodded and, using his free hand, made hand signs. Harry looked at him confused just as Blackthorne's eyes widened in realization. The older man turned to Sirius and rapidly signalled him.

"Oh, that's right!" exclaimed Sirius as he slapped his forehead. "You were never told!"

"Told what?" asked Harry.

Looking at Blackthorne sadly, which the Portuguese-descended man returned with a glare, Sirius explained the man's accident and consequent loss of speech. Harry merely gave his former aide a manly hug and promised to learn sign language as quickly as possible. Blackthorne merely smiled amusedly.

The four men chatted away the afternoon, with Sirius, Remus, and Blackthorne looking astounded at the fact that the Northern Duke, the Field Marshall of the Imperial Army, the Restorer of the Throne, and the Head of the Imperial Armed Forces were all the same person—Harry.

"I mean, I knew you were good, kid," explained Sirius. "But _damn_!"

Remus and Blackthorne nodded. Harry had always been a prodigy at the Academy, but this just ranked him up there with geniuses like Caesar and Alexander the Great.

Harry smiled somewhat abashedly. He could take a compliment from his peers, but he'd always get embarrassed when his family complimented him. Sirius, seeing this, grinned gleefully.

"Good to know _something_ about you is still the same!"

All four men laughed at this. Soon, however, the talk turned to more serious matters.

"Harry, your parents and siblings will want to see you," Remus told him. The three men had previously informed Harry of the survival of the rest of his family, but wisely decided to omit the existence of his daughter until Ginny was conscious once more. Harry had been ecstatic at the news.

"I know," Harry told the older man. "I'll make arrangements for them to be quartered aboard the _Anchorage_ while their Visas get approved."

"Not the _Retaliation_?" asked Blackthorne through Remus, who was interpreting.

Harry shook. "All civilians are banned from military ships under the new Military Security Act," he told them. "You lot are a temporary exception since Her Majesty had the men bring you here."

Remus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I see," he mumbled while Blackthorne took on a similar thoughtful look. Sirius, meanwhile, looked bored at the turn of conversation.

"What can you tell us about the Death Eaters?" asked Sirius, trying to get back to more interesting conversational routes. Remus and Blackthorne rolled their eyes at him.

"They've been strangely quiet, with the exception of this half-baked attack and a few other skirmishes," Harry told him. "We're frankly getting worried."

"Are you allowed to tell us this?" Remus interpreted for Blackthorne. Harry smirked at them.

"Not really, unless I was summarily drafting you for the military," he told them nonchalantly. All three men widened their eyes. Harry chuckled. "Not to worry. I'm not _that_ mean. And anyway, most of this is on public record."

All three looked relieved, making Harry laugh.

* * *

Near Stonehenge, in a man-made cave, a shadowy figure cackled insanely as he made preparations for a very particular ceremony.

"Soon…soon, master," cackled the figure as he stirred the solution inside his cauldron. " Soon, you will rise once more, and I shall serve you, as I always have!"

Nearby, an intricate urn with the Potter shield engraved on its front glowed ominously black.


	9. Chapter VII: Demotion

_AN: And things get complicated...now. ) - Marquis Black_

* * *

A couple of days later, Harry found himself sitting by Ginny's bed, her right hand tightly clasped in his. After briefly catching up on family news with Sirius, Remus, and Joachim, he'd quickly excused himself and returned to his wife's bedside. The doctor had, by then, cleared the premises, leaving Harry and Ginny alone.

The euphoria of having found his family alive had soon faded away after his meeting with the three Potter retainers, replaced by grief and regret as he sat by his unconscious wife.

He felt grief over having just found her, only to have her remain in a state of prolonged unconsciousness, robbing him of the angelic quality of her laughter, and the soothing tones of her voice.

He felt regret for having dishonoured his marriage to her by having his affair with Allison, thus shaming her and everything he'd vowed to her on their wedding day.

Sighing, the off-duty officer brought his wife's limp hand to his mouth and kissed it tenderly.

"I wish you'd wake up…" he told her sadly. "Even if only to scream at me, or glare at me, like you used to whenever I did something stupid…"

Harry sighed once more. He didn't even have his work to keep his mind off her unconscious state. Once Elizabeth had heard of Ginny's condition, she'd ordered him to take time off and had, with the Prime Minister's advice, chosen Sulu to temporarily replace him as acting Head of the Armed Forces, while giving some professional armchair general the position of Field Marshall. Unfortunately, the man wasn't good enough to push the Death Eaters back, but he _was_ good enough to keep the line intact while Harry waited for his wife to recuperate.

He'd finally met with his parents the previous day, when Ginny and the rest of the civilian evacuees were transferred to the _HMIS_ _Anchorage_, one of the Imperial Navy's many Hospital-Evacuation Ships. The reunion had been happy, if tearful, and had temporarily diverted his attention from his wife's predicament. He'd noticed, however, that both of them, like Sirius, Remus, and Blackthorne, were somewhat shifty when talking about what Ginny had been up to during the years they'd spent apart.

Despite the cold fear that crept up in his stomach as he tried to not imagine what she _could_ have been up to during their years of separation, Harry managed to push those thoughts away by remembering the few times they _had_ spent together.

He could still recall those few, peaceful days when he'd lean against the Potter home's backdoor, serenely watching her tending to the flowerbeds along with Lily. She'd sometimes look up at him and give him a radiant smile before getting back to work. Still, even one smile was enough for him, and his father's knowing smile at the time told him that his dad felt the same way when looking at his mother.

With a smile, he recalled some of their evenings, when they'd contentedly sat on the large couch in Potter Manor's smaller library and simply read, Ginny leaning back against him, reading some fascinating novel, while he read some interesting philosophical book that'd just come out. He could still hear the soft, classical music playing in the background as the two spent the entire evening reading, content with simply keeping each other company.

As Harry allowed his fingers to unconsciously rub Ginny's palm, he allowed himself to head deeper down memory lane, thinking of the time they'd spent together before he'd admitted his feelings towards her. He remembered, chuckling a bit, when she'd begun to take violin lessons during the summer after her first year, as he'd recommended venting her nightmares through music. Out of the ten days he'd managed to see her, he'd never once heard her play the blasted instrument right. Still, her dedication to learning how to play the instrument had kept her mind too occupied to dwell on the nightmarish events of her first year.

Then, during her second year, she pressured him into submission to learn an instrument himself, a feat not even his older sister and mother had been able to do. It amazed them even more when they learned that he'd been persuaded via letters. As such, he learned the violin and viola, and during their time together, would accompany her in such music pieces as Mozart's third Violin Concerto, an improvised version of Vivaldi's Mandolin Concerto in C Major, and many other pieces. Sometimes they would play simply out of boredom, while other times, they used it more as a way of playfully challenging the other, with one starting a tune, with the other having to complete it. The rest of the Potter clan would sometimes sit on these sessions and pass a pleasant time seeing the two challenging each other.

He was about to head into third year when a cough broke his reminiscing. Snapping his eyes to the intruder, his wand at the ready, he sighed in relief when he noticed it was only Neville.

"Neville! You almost gave me heart failure!" cried Harry in relief as he sagged back into his seat.

Neville gave a weak grin as he stood at attention, which caught Harry's attention. At a second look, Harry noticed that Neville was in full deployment uniform, with his brass-coloured helmet underneath his left armpit. Harry even saw that he had a full pack on his back, with one of the new magazine bolt-action rifles slung on his shoulder.

"You going somewhere, Nev?" asked Harry, confused. "I don't recall signing any deployment orders for you." This was true. In fact, even if he was temporarily replaced as acting Head, any deployment orders had to pass by his approval first, considering he was the Empire's master strategist.

Neville gave him a rueful smile. "Orders just came in. The Third Legion's being redeployed from Outpost Churchill."

Harry looked shocked at this announcement. "Where to? On whose orders?" he demanded.

"Empire's Helm, a new camp a good fifty miles north of Nova Scotia."

Harry's jaw dropped. Empire's Helm was widely known to be a death trap in the making. It was in a valley, with only two entries, and the strong wind currents above it, coupled with the heavily charged electromagnetic field (a left-over from a failed Muggle attempt to nuke the Death Eaters into annihilation) made it impossible for air deployment. Its only saving grace was that whoever held the Helm had a solid beachhead in Newfoundland.

"On whose orders?" demanded Harry, full of anger and indignity that someone had gone over his head to issue such a suicidal order. The third Legion alone wasn't enough to hold the spacious and indefensible valley.

Neville's look now turned to disgust. "Colonel-Strategist Ronald Weasley, sir."

Harry was fuming now. "_Weasley?_" he demanded, raising his voice. "How in the seven corners of _hell_ did that traitorous _maggot_ even _get_ a commission?"

Neville shrugged. "Don't know, sir. Anyway, it's out of my hands, and yours, sir," he added, looking at Harry sternly, as he was about to protest. "I didn't come here to get the orders overturned, you know."

Harry looked confused now. "Then why are you here?"

Neville looked at him sadly. "I came to say goodbye."

* * *

"What were you _thinking_!"

Sulu calmly watched as Harry threw a tantrum in his temporary office aboard the _Anchorage_, magic rolling off him in waves that occasionally caused a crystalline object to shatter.

"…sending crack troops on a suicidal move!"

"Harry…"

"…commissioning a known traitor as strategist!"

"Harry…"

"…granting clemency to those foul, insignificant _murderers_!"

"HARRY!"

Harry stopped pacing around and glared at Sulu, who now looked somewhat irritated.

"Look, Harry, it's out of my hands," Sulu told him tersely. At Harry's indignant glare, Sulu continued before the youngest Field Marshall in history could continue his rant. "It was part of an agreement between the Crown and the former Order of the Phoenix."

"Oh?" was the terse, yet inquisitive reply.

"In exchange for their lives, the Order disbands and agrees to work with the Imperial military to bring about the Death Eaters' demise," explained Sulu. "Mr. Weasley was shown to have an excellent aptitude in chess and was thus appointed as your replacement as strategist."

Harry's eyes lit up in fury once more. "Aptitude in a game with lifeless figurines does not equate to ability on a battlefield!" he hissed. "_YOU_, of _all_ people should know!"

Sulu had the decency to blush at this jab, since he'd been considered quite good at strategy thanks to his adequate skills in chess before Harry had come along and torn him apart on a mock-battlefield.

Sulu quickly regained his cool, however, and gazed steely at Harry. "Nonetheless, the assignment stands as long as you need to have your affairs in order. Mr. Weasley seems capable enough, and the appointment has the approval of both the Prime Minister and Her Majesty."

Harry looked at Sulu as if he had a third head. "What's the matter with you?" demanded the younger man. "Weeks ago, you would have been right up here with me, demanding the Order be hung form the nearest tree! Now you're actively supporting them!"

Sulu coloured up, making his dark skin darken further. "I am _not_ taking their side, Harry!" snapped Sulu. "However, I am in the unfortunate position of needing a new strategist, as our current one seems to be going through a heavily emotional and trying time!" he said, gazing pointedly at Harry.

Harry glared back at his long-time friend. "And meanwhile, who's going to tell Susan and the rest of the lads that Neville and the Third are off to get killed?" he hissed, slamming down his hands onto Sulu's desk. "Empire's Helm is a _death trap_, Sulu! You know it, _I_ know it, and any _competent_ strategist would know it!"

"It's a risky move, I'll grant you that," conceded Sulu. "But perhaps the time has come for a more aggressive stance. Lord knows we haven't made much headway since Utah."

Harry's glare intensified. "That's hardly my fault and you know it!" riposted Harry. "The Death Eaters have managed to get the Americans to give them the factories they need to create the Airships. How was _I_ supposed to stop that?"

"No one's saying it's your fault…" began Sulu, but was quickly cut off by Harry.

"But they're all thinking it, aren't they?" he hissed. "That's why I'm being replaced, isn't it? Because the Death Eaters now have the Archangel technology?"

Sulu hesitated for a moment before he reluctantly agreed. "That _was_ one of the many reasons…"

"What else?" demanded Harry, eyes flashing. "What else have they said about me?"

Sulu seemed unwilling to elaborate, but eventually gave in to his loyalty to his friend. "Harry…you need to understand…the image you give off to the public…it's not _right_…" started Sulu, carefully choosing his words. "The masses themselves don't rightly care, of course…I mean, you bring _results_, after all…but the rest of the brass…"

"Yes?" prompted Harry dangerously. His fists were quickly tightening into whitened flesh.

"The newly appointed ones, that is…" amended Sulu. "Mostly coming from the pre-coup ranks or the refugees from Panama City…they hold to the old conventions, you see. They don't believe an officer's place is at the front…" Instead of continuing, Sulu merely slid forward an official looking document towards Harry wordlessly.

Picking it up and glancing at Sulu with an irritated look, Harry turned his attention towards the paper and soon blanched.

* * *

**Imperial Armed Forces Act**

Be it enacted by the Queen's most Excellent Majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, in this present Parliament assembled, and by the authority of the same, as follows:

**Name and Terminology of the Armed Forces**

Henceforth, the Royal Army is to be reorganized into the Imperial

Armed Forces, and

All manuals, guidelines, and official documents are to be re-filed under the new heading, with the previous copies held in storage for official record keeping and,

In keeping with the aforementioned change, the appropriate title of a member of the IAM Officer Corps is Imperial Officer, and the appropriate adjective for all matters regarding the Armed Forces is Imperial.

**Revisions to the Imperial Officer Code of Conduct**

Acknowledging the fact that traditional regulations for Imperial Officers have regularly allowed for many loopholes to exist, the new Code of Conduct is to be reformed in such a way as to dispel these loopholes and enforce the following,—

The officer, as a symbol of order, morale, and discipline, is to remain in a position of relative safety _at all times_ and distance him or herself from any actual combat, _unless under direct personal attack_, and

The violation of the aforementioned directive will result in the punitive action of suspension without pay for no less than one month and no more than five weeks, and

Continuous violations of the aforementioned directive will result in permanent discharge of the dishonourable category.

**Reorganization of the Royal Military Police**

In accordance with the widespread changes in the Armed Forces, the Royal Military Police will also be reorganized into the Office of the Imperial Provost Marshall, and

The Office of the Imperial Provost Marshall shall be headed by the Imperial Provost Marshall, and

The powers and directives of the IPM are to remain the same as its previous incarnation.

**Reorganization of the Imperial Armed Forces**

The different units of the now-incorporated Imperial factions (these being, the Northern Britannic Loyalist Forces, the Asian Loyalist League, and the African Imperial League) are to be reorganized into the following,—

…

* * *

Harry read on the document in growing consternation as the document outlined changes in the Armed Forces he'd never dreamed of seeing in his lifetime. Sulu watched him impassively, his hands entwined on his desk in front of him.

Once Harry raised his head, Sulu nudged his head towards the pile of papers on his right.

"There's more of those," he told Harry. "Seems like the Restoration has injected a rejuvenated surge of Imperialist sentiment. The Act two days previous to that one you're holding renamed the United Kingdom officially into the British Empire."

Harry looked at the considerable pile with an unreadable expression. "Every branch has been affected?" he asked. Sulu nodded. "Even the Airfleet Corps?"

"Especially the Airfleet Corps" answered Sulu as he searched the pile for the document pertaining to that topic. Skimming over it, he grimaced. "Parliament has transferred a good deal of your men into the other branches, including the totality of the ground-based artillery."

"So no ground-based operations for the Airfleet Corps, then," summed up Harry. "Who were the advocates for this?"

Sulu brought forth another piece of paper and read it briefly. "In general? The Opposition. Though, if you ask me, the ex-Order certainly had a hand in manipulating the events into taking such form."

"How so?" asked Harry.

"Dumbledore's been getting chummy with the MP's," explained Sulu. He then motioned to the room around him. "He got you kicked out of your post as Head of the Armed Forces, and—" what else Dumbledore had done was lost to speculation as Harry exploded once more.

"WHAT?" screamed Harry.

Sulu blanched. "Oh, right. You hadn't heard," he groaned to himself. Looking back up at Harry, Sulu looked apologetic. "Dumbledore managed to convince enough MP's on both sides that having the same man run both the Armed Forces _and_ a full Corps directly was essentially handing over the Empire to your ambitions."

Harry remained silent for a moment. "I…can't say I fault that logic," he admitted at length. "So you're the new Head of the Armed Forces?" he asked.

Sulu nodded. "It was made permanent today," he told his colleague. "Don't worry, though. If you ever need anything, just ask me, and I'll do what I can."

Harry nodded gratefully. "Thanks."

Sulu shrugged off the thanks. "We've been friends since the Academy, Harry. I don't want this one event to destroy that."

Harry nodded. "I understand," he admitted. He then sighed. "It was just so…natural, you know? Controlling every aspect of the Armed Forces; getting them to do what _I_ had determined was the best course of action. Now, I'm forced to answer to another man. Again."

Sulu nodded in understanding. "Don't worry. Like I said, I won't hinder you."

Harry smiled in thanks. It quickly faded, however, as he returned to the matter at hand. "What about Neville?" he asked.

Sulu sighed as he spread his arms in helplessness. "Until your affairs are in order—that is to say, the Duchess wakes up—I can't reverse the current course of action, as it was suggested and thought out by a legitimate strategist of the Armed Forces."

Harry nodded reluctantly. "Could I, at the very least, _see_ this much spoken-of plan?"

Sulu nodded absently as he scratched away at a piece of paper with his quill. "I'll have it sent to you later," he assured his friend. He briefly lifted his eyes to meet Harry's. "Try to look at it without bias, will you? It's actually really not that bad."

Harry gave him a reluctant, yet stiff nod, and stood up. Out of respect, the two men saluted each other before Harry turned on his heel and left the room.

* * *

Hours later, sitting by his bedridden wife, Harry couldn't help but agree with Sulu. Weasley's plan really _wasn't _ that bad. Harry had dissected it left and right, sketched it out, and found it to be actually quite promising, if a few things hadn't been overlooked. But then, everyone made mistakes, right?

Absently rubbing the back of Ginny's left hand, Harry realized that didn't make him feel any better.


	10. Chapter VIII: Repentance

_AN: I am **so** sorry for the delay in this chapter. It's been written for a damn long while now, and the only reason I was unable to upload it at all was because my computer went through a phase in which it believed it had gone through a lobotomy, so all the information on my hard drive was lost. Fortunately, I had a few copies backed up, and so now I'm able to upload this **at last**. So, without further ado, here's Chapter VIII. -- Marquis Black_

* * *

  


_Nine days later…_

Harry paced his way down the metallic corridor that led towards Sulu's office briskly. The men and women who passed by him seemed to glance at him somewhat fearfully, and with good reason, too.

For Harry Potter was not pleased.

In fact, he was bordering on outright anger.

It had been well over a week since any word had come from the Third Legion, and his repeated requests to send an expedition to find out what had happened had been continuously denied, often on frivolous grounds.

Which was why, at the moment, Harry was storming towards Sulu's office.

Not even the guards standing by the doors stopped him, as they were, for the most part, sympathetic to the Duke's cause, and were not a little miffed at the seeming callousness that Headquarters was displaying in this situation.

Thus it was that Harry, Duke of Halifax and decorated Hero of the Empire, slammed open the elaborate wooden double-doors, loudly and rudely interrupting a meeting between Sulu and some of the former Order members; namely, Dumbledore, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Kingsley Shacklebolt.

All of the occupants within the room jumped as the Duke stormed in, eyes blazing, and a few armed guards following closely behind him.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded Shacklebolt as he stood up, shocked by both Harry's presence and the rude entry.

Harry's glare at the man was ferocious enough to quiet the normally proud and capable ex-Auror. The glare was subsequently turned onto Sulu, who looked shocked, irritated, and yet, reluctantly unsurprised.

"What is it this time, Marshall?" asked Sulu, not willing to display the usual familiarity amongst those not within his inner circle of trust.

Harry glared at the occupants briefly before turning his attention to Sulu. "You know why I'm here, General," he replied in kind, although far more bitingly.

Sulu levelled his own glare at Harry. "As you've been told before, the Imperial military will _not_ attempt to relieve the Third Legion, Marshall," he reminded Harry.

"_Why the sodding hell not?_" all but screamed Harry furiously. Behind him, the guards seemed to swell with indignation as well.

"Marshall!" cried out Hermione in shock at the man's language.

Sulu ignored the bushy-haired woman and narrowed his eyes at Harry. "There are procedures to follow, Marshall. No distress signal has been received from the Helm, and—"

Harry had to stop himself from drawing his sword at that moment. How could his friend be so blind? "Have you forgotten the fact that the Helm is within a _very powerful_ electromagnetic field?" he hissed.

Sulu faltered for a moment, but regained his composure. "Colonel Longbottom would have known to put up an antenna outside the field's range," he countered.

"You seem to forget that the closest point for him to build such an antenna is within Death Eater territory," snapped Harry.

Now Sulu _did_ falter. "But…," he stammered. "Our maps…"

"That's impossible!" protested Ron Weasley, finally butting into the conversation. "The intelligence I was given told me that the surrounding area was under Imperial control!" he asserted.

Harry glared at the Weasley man. He hadn't forgotten their past history, or what Sirius and Remus had told him about his later years.

Eventually, however, he managed to refocus his attention towards Sulu. "You're positive about the maps?" he asked briskly.

Sulu nodded wordlessly. Instead, it was the Granger woman who spoke up.

"The General and Ron aren't lying, Marshall," she said somewhat nervously. After all, it was a somewhat daunting and terrifying experience to be within striking distance of the man who'd taken down Serpent Fortress, led the American Incursion, and been hailed as the Restorer of the Throne. "Ron showed me the information before he submitted the plans."

Harry levelled a cold, calculating gaze at her. He contemplated her silently for a few minutes before finally asking, "Why?"

Hermione seemed nonplussed at this semi-courteous question. "Logistical problems, mainly," she replied after a moment.

Harry kept his gaze on her for a moment before nodding and turning to Sulu. "Do you still have a copy of the maps used?"

"Now, I don't believe that will be necessary, will it?" interrupted Dumbledore smoothly.

Harry glared at the older man. _Their_ past history was very much _not_ forgotten. "And why is that?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"We've already established that the information mister Weasley and Miss Granger had was erroneous," Dumbledore explained calmly. "Perhaps rather than look further into the matter of _how_ erroneous it is, we should focus on helping the poor fellows at the Helm."

Harry was about to snap an angry retort when Shacklebolt spoke up.

"I agree," stated the ex-Auror before matching Harry's gaze. "I don't know whether you remember me or not, Marshall, but I was at Hogwarts in nineteen ninety seven. I was the Ministry garrison commander."

Harry nodded at him silently after a moment's contemplation. "I remember. Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt. Major Wolfe spoke to you directly."

Kingsley nodded, somewhat honoured that such a hero (in his eyes) would remember him. "That is correct, Marshall. However, returning to my point, Marshall, I believe that if you were to ask Major Wolfe—"

"Colonel Wolfe," corrected Harry.

Kingsley didn't miss a beat. "—Colonel Wolfe about that particular instance, he would have told you that I'd ordered your men unharmed and well kept."

Harry nodded. "He said much the same thing," admitted Harry, scowling at Dumbledore's apparent smugness as Kingsley gave his faction the moral high ground. "Get to the point, Shacklebolt."

"My pardons, Your Grace," apologized Kingsley. "What I meant to say is, in the presence of the option to either go immediately and save your men, and digging further into this apparent dereliction of duty, perhaps the wiser option is to ascertain the fate of your comrades. After all, the error will still be there when you return. The men, on the other hand, may not."

Harry looked at the ex-Auror with something akin to respect, yet a great deal of suspicion (rooted in his total distrust of the former Order) was mixed in as well. He was, however, forced to concede the point.

"Very well," he agreed, before turning to Sulu. "I have your permission, then?"

Sulu nodded, somewhat shocked that someone else had managed to talk reason into the usually unreasonable (when angry) Field Air Marshall.

Harry nodded briskly. "Very well. I shall have the _Aurora_ and the _Orion_ depart immediately with components of the Fourth Legion to investigate the situation."

With that, Harry spun on his heel and strode out of the room, his guards close behind.

* * *

Harry, however, hadn't gotten far before a cry halted him.

"Marshall, a moment, please!"

The Duke turned to see Weasley run up to him. Obviously, the redheaded man had quickly excused himself from the meeting and had sought to catch up to him.

"What is it, mister Weasley?" asked Harry.

Weasley seemed a bit unnerved by Harry's form of address, but managed to summon enough courage to say his piece.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," said the redheaded man quickly.

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "What for?" he asked dryly.

"Getting your men into trouble," he explained. "Whatever you might think of me and the rest of the Order, I would never have intentionally sent them to their deaths."

Harry was silent for a moment. "Your record is against you on that count, mister Weasley."

The redheaded man flinched. "I know, and I can say that my youth made me somewhat stupid…" he admitted at length. "But I would _never_ do something as horrible as send an entire Legion to their deaths just for petty revenge!"

Harry considered the man's response for a moment. Something wasn't quite right with it. "Why are you doing this?" he asked eventually, his tone crisp. Upon seeing Ron's confused look, he elaborated. "You don't care about my opinion, Weasley. You hate me. It's common knowledge. You hate _me_, the Imperial cause—heck, even your own _sister_!"

At this, the redheaded man flinched. Hard. Understanding flooded Harry's face.

"You're actually worried about _her_, aren't you?" he asked softly. After all, he really couldn't begrudge that. Lord knew that he himself was practically falling apart due to his wife's condition. After all, she hadn't woken up at the week's end, like it'd been estimated, much to his dismay. It had taken a couple of soldiers to restrain him from killing the doctor for this simple miscalculation.

Harry had no idea why, but for some reason, his temper had slowly, but surely, degraded with time, to the point that he now needed little prodding before his temper exploded violently.

Harry watched as the redheaded man nodded slowly. "I...I know I was horrible to her, and you," he added quickly, "but when I was told that Ginny had fought in Panama City and gotten hurt, I felt horrible. More than I thought I would."

Ron ran a hand through his hair in a frustrated move. "I mean, my brain kept telling me that she was the enemy—that she'd betrayed the family by going to you!" he told Harry, who hadn't made a move since the beginning of the man's confession. However, he did signal for one of his guards to relay his orders to Central Command.

"But?" prompted Harry after Ron did not immediately continue.

"But she's my sister," said Ron. "I even asked Hermione about it. Did you know she was one of the first to argue for the disbandment of the Order after Snape motioned for it?"

Harry was surprised to know this. "No, I had no idea," he said honestly.

Ron nodded with a weak chuckle. "She did. For the first time since I've known her, she stood up to Dumbledore and used that brain of hers to _dismantle_ something she'd personally been advocating for years," he told Harry. He then blinked and suddenly reddened. "I'm off topic, aren't I?"

Harry wordlessly nodded, causing the redhead to flush even more in embarrassment.

"Anyway," he continued as he managed to lose some of his flush. "I was confused, and I asked her about my situation. I think she may have wanted to hit me at the time, come to think of it," he added to himself. He shook himself as he realized he'd gone off in another tangent, much to Harry's amusement. "Anyway, she told me I was an idiot--"

'No argument there,' thought Harry.

"--And that my problem was that I'm only seeing things from Dumbledore's perspective, rather than seeing the whole picture."

Ron glanced at Harry, who raised an eyebrow at this move. "Are you expecting me to counter that? I actually agree with her," remarked Harry wryly.

Ron flushed. "Yeah, that's what she said you'd do, too. I guess that's when I realized that maybe I'd been too harsh…too set in my ways. So I asked to be transferred into the Army when the Order disbanded."

"That was barely a month ago," interrupted Harry. "Why the sudden change in opinion? Most take months, even years to reconcile their old views with reality."

Ron chuckled weakly. "I guess it was my fellow cadets that showed me the error of my ways," he admitted. "I mean, most of the others were either Muggles or Squibs,"

"Ungifted," interrupted Harry sharply. "Don't use those terms. They're derogatory."

Ron winced. "Yeah, the others said the same when I first used them in front of them. Even the few who were magi—Gifted like me seemed to look at me as if I was scum when I used them."

'With good reason' thought Harry.

"Anyway, after the first few days of being shunned, I guess I realized how dumb my prejudices were. No one ever came to my side during my fights, and yet the instructors never marked me differently for being an ex-member of the Order. Back at Hogwarts, similar situations would have gotten me marked down at every opportunity."

Silently, Harry felt horrified and glad he had never had to go to such an uncivilized school.

Ron sighed. "I'm glad to say I got over it. Mum, on the other hand…" Ron looked uneasy. "Mum still thinks Dumbledore's right, I reckon. As does Percy. Mum occasionally asks about Ginny, but since you've restricted our access to her, she hasn't heard much about her since the accident. Percy, on the other hand, simply acts like she doesn't exist, the great git," snarled Ron.

Harry nodded. "Have you seen your brother yet?" asked Harry, obviously referring to Bill, whom Remus and Sirius had told him everyone thought dead.

Ron looked a bit confused by the sudden topic switch but nodded. "Aye. Tore us a new one when Mum, Percy, and I talked to him about rejoining the Order. Still hasn't talked to us since."

Harry had to fight himself so he wouldn't grin. He knew there was a reason why he liked the eldest Weasley son.

"Since we're on the topic of my brothers…" Ron began nervously.

Harry sighed and shook his head. "I'm sorry, but no word yet on Charlie," Harry told him. "We figure that once Bill was rescued, they did their very best to hide Charlie away. As leverage, I assume."

Ron snarled at the idea. "As if we would be coerced so easily. Charlie wouldn't want us to betray the cause for him."

Harry gave him an appraising look and finally one of approval. "Good to know, Weasley."

Ron looked shocked at seeing Harry's look of approval, making the Marshall chuckle as he turned away. After taking a few steps, Harry suddenly turned back.

"Weasley!"

Ron snapped out of his shock and turned to look at Harry, who was smiling approvingly. "Yes, Marshall?"

"Good work on the plan. I took a look at it and it looked good. Maybe if the phoney maps had been true, it would have worked."

With that, Harry turned his back on Ron and walked off down the hallway.

Maybe all wasn't lost with the Order, Harry mused. Perhaps there was hope yet.


	11. Chapter IX: Stir

_**AN**: I am **so** sorry about the delays, folks; however, I've been pulled away by having to move back to Canada, and that means moving into a new apartment, getting internet access, and so forth. Things are still hectic, however, so please do not assume I've just given up, as this is not so--I'm merely attempting to settle my affairs as quickly as possible first._

* * *

_Two days later…_

The word spread around quickly all throughout the medical ship, and throughout the Imperial capital.

The Duchess of Halifax had woken up.

Skidding to a stop near the double doors that led to the infirmary, Harry quickly pushed open the doors and stormed into the sick bay.

"Is it true?" he demanded to the nearest nurse, who meekly nodded after having been startled by the Duke's forceful entry. She, along with many others in the staff had been watching through the one-way window as the resident doctor and a couple of female nurses checked out the Duchess' vitals.

Harry's face now lit up with happiness and he hugged the nurse for all she was worth before walking up to the door and opening it quickly. The doctor inside was surprised at the entry of the Duke and squeaked as the man strode up to him and hugged him as well.

"So it's true?" asked Harry once more as he let go of the man.

The doctor nodded meekly. "Yes, Your Grace. She woke up this morning, spoke groggily for a moment, then coherently, then went back to sleep."

"Sleep? You're sure?" asked Harry, suddenly feeling a cold pit form in his stomach.

The doctor nodded furiously. "Yes, Your Grace. She is most definitely sleeping. She asked for you, as a matter of fact," he added.

Harry perked up at this. "In the morning?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Why wasn't I told?"

The doctor moved from foot to foot uncomfortably. "We did send word, but you were in that meeting with General Sulu and the captains of the relief force."

Harry nodded. Sure, he was irritated that he hadn't been told sooner, but couldn't begrudge the man for that, since there was a valid excuse.

"What did she say, exactly?" asked Harry.

The doctor smiled. "She asked for you, as I said. She also asked about your parents and her own."

Harry grinned at this. It meant that she probably wouldn't be suffering from memory problems, if any.

"She also asked about someone called Sarah," added the doctor suddenly, puzzled as he looked at his notes. "Have you any idea who she meant, Your Grace?"

Harry shook his head. "I know of no woman called Sarah. Probably a friend of hers."

The doctor, however, looked sceptical about that. "She was quite insistent upon news about this Sarah, Your Grace. Bordering on hysterical. Only after we promised to look into her whereabouts did she calm down."

Harry was puzzled by this revelation. Who exactly was this Sarah that his wife cared so much about? Deciding to have one of his agents look into it later, Harry turned his attention back to his sleeping wife, a genuine smile creeping up on his usually scowling face.

After a good ten minutes, the doctor and his staff finally left the room, leaving the two Potters alone at last. Harry sat down next to her and took her left hand, kissing it where she'd kept her wedding ring.

The Duke sat there for over an hour, occasionally glancing at his wife whenever he swore she'd moved, only to sit back and watch, content, as her chest gently rose and fell with every breath. In her sleep, the Duke had carefully watched her and compared her with the image of her he'd retained for five years. She'd certainly kept herself well, and he was somewhat pleased to see that her freckles had receded from encompassing her entire face to just a smatter across the nose, which, in his opinion, had merely served to exalt the rest of her facial features.

Her hair, his favourite feature in her, had darkened somewhat to a blood-coloured red, which for some reason made her all the more desirable to him. Her chest, too, had grown, from what he could see. Not too much—simply enough for her to be well-proportioned all around, much to his pleasure.

His musings were interrupted, however, by the stirring of her hand. Although it took him a few seconds to process the meaning of that, he immediately thereafter shot to his feet and leaned over his wife.

"Ginny?" he whispered anxiously.

Nothing. He was about to sigh in disappointment when she stirred again and this time whispered back, "Harry?"

Harry involuntarily let out an uncharacteristic sob of joy as he watched his darling wife open her eyes at last. Those chocolate brown eyes that he loved so much took a moment to recognize him (he didn't blame her—after all, he _had_ changed during the intermittent years, and had a few scars to prove it) but eventually, as recognition flooded her, her eyes became alit with joy as she reached up tentatively and, upon touching his face, gave a small sob of joy and pulled him into a fierce hug, which he avidly returned.

"Harry!" she exclaimed in happiness as she pulled him close.

"My sweet Ginny," he replied tenderly into her ear as he returned the hug. "My sweet, darling, beloved Ginny…"

Ginny let out a relieved sob into his red tunic, her tears wetting his uniform. As if starving, and practically by shared thought, the two estranged lovers pulled back from their hug and leaned in for their first kiss in five years. The two remained lip locked for a full minute before their hands started to wander, with Ginny's becoming entangled in Harry's wild hair and Harry's settling on her waist.

Eventually, the two broke off the kiss for breath, but both seemed exhilarated by the kiss. Smiling down on his wife, Harry said, "I missed you."

Ginny giggled at his somewhat cliché overture. "I missed you too," she admitted in a whisper as she planted a loving kiss on his lips. "I dreamed of you every night since the day we parted."

Harry felt a pang of guilt as thoughts of his affair with Allison flooded his mind, but he quickly pushed them away as he admitted, "I prayed for our reunion every day,"

Ginny seemed satisfied by this, making Harry sigh in relief internally. He _really_ hated not telling her up front about his indiscretions, but he was, at the same time, _very_ grateful that he didn't have to summon his courage to do so now.

For her part, Ginny was ecstatic beyond belief at having found her husband once more. She'd been alone for so long now, her only care her daughter, that she'd begun to wonder whether or not she would ever be able to love a man again. She supposed most women in her position would have moved on, but Ginny had never been able to feel that way. Every time someone mentioned it, all she could do was remember the sweet times with Harry. And even then, not necessarily the romantic ones, but also the times when they were just friends, and he'd managed to find his way to their meeting spot, over by the orchard near her house.

Snuggling into his strong arms (and silently admiring how much bulkier they were now), Ginny felt as if things couldn't get better.

"Ginny? Who's Sarah?"

* * *

Elizabeth paced her study nervously, her hands wringing in front of her. She'd been briefed moments ago by a courier about the altercation between the Air Field Marshall and the General of the Armies, and the implications of the situation worried her. It meant that there was an insider working towards the destruction of the Empire, which worried her even more, as all evidence pointed to the Gifted.

Elizabeth sighed in frustration as she lifted a hand to her forehead. Why couldn't the war simply be between the Death Eaters and the Empire? Why did there need to be a potential civil war on her hands as well?

Her Prime Minister's cabinet was not helping either. Despite Minister Lee's attempts to stifle the bloodlust of his fellow ministers, there was nonetheless a strong, if silent, demand to persecute all Gifted members of British Imperial society. She refused, of course, and would continue to refuse it.

"You called for me, madam?" interjected a soft, old voice.

Elizabeth broke out of her musings to see the old wizard Dumbledore standing at the door of her study.

Elizabeth nodded and motioned him towards one of the chairs in the study. "Yes, thank you for coming, Mister Dumbledore. Please, have a seat."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled slightly but he instead remained standing where he was. "If it isn't too much trouble, madam, perhaps I could browse your books?" he asked. "My eyes, old as they are, see many volumes of knowledge I've never encountered before."

Elizabeth allowed a small smile to grace her young face as she nodded. "Of course, of course. Help yourself," she allowed before taking a seat herself. "I am told by the Royal Historian that many of them are books my namesake kept, courtesy of the famous John Dee."

Dumbledore's eyes now twinkled full force. "Truly?" he said, somewhat awed as he pawed one such tome. "John Dee…the only Ungifted man to have truly understood magic. Some say perhaps better than we Gifted folk," he noted to the Queen.

Said sovereign nodded pleasantly. A moment of silence passed before Elizabeth spoke up. "I assume you're wondering why I sent for you," she stated.

"The thought had crossed my mind, Your Majesty, yes," admitted Dumbledore pleasantly as he paged through the book.

Elizabeth nodded sternly. "We understand we have not met quite eye to eye on many things, your society and mine. In fact, had the Death Eaters not attacked my family five years ago, we daresay we would have probably ended up in a full fledged civil war."

"A bit extreme as far as judgements go, but I agree," conceded Dumbledore.

"Mister Dumbledore," Elizabeth continued, "You are widely renown amongst the Gifted as a powerful, but even more importantly, a wise man. If the rumours are true, you are nearing over a century and a half of age. You've seen things and done things which most of the world cannot comprehend."

Dumbledore, despite himself, smile. "All very good flattery, Your Majesty, but I presume there's a point to it?"

Elizabeth returned the smile with a shy one of her own. "Yes. Mister Dumbledore, despite our differences, we do believe you to be a very wise man. Perhaps, due to the unusual circumstances of the times, your wisdom went contrary to events, but I feel that now is the right time to employ it once more." Elizabeth took a deep breath now. "Mister Dumbledore, we wish for you to become my personal advisor."

Dumbledore seemed neither shocked nor against the announcement. Rather, he seemed somewhat amused. "Are you aware, Your Majesty, that many will clamour for my death and against my appointment to such a position?" he asked calmly.

Elizabeth waved off the concerns. "As they did when John Dee was appointed to our ancestor's side, no doubt."

"But John Dee was not part of a rebellious faction," pointed out Dumbledore.

Elizabeth dismissed that out of hand. "You may have little to no love for the Empire, Dumbledore, but you care enough to see the Death Eaters be eliminated. Perhaps in the interval, you will find it pleasant to work for a united Gifted and Ungifted world."

Dumbledore replied to that statement by merely raising an eyebrow. Then, remaining silent for a moment, he nodded. "I accept your appointment, Your Majesty," he told her. "What shall I have to do?"

Elizabeth smiled. "Quarters for you have been set apart in the highest tower of the palace. We will be expecting you in court tomorrow to hear out Halifax's report, and may ask for your counsel then. After that, you may use your time as you wish until called upon once more."

Dumbledore was personally surprised at this revelation. From the get-go, he'd expected this to simply be a measure to keep him on a short leash, with him being confined to some barely furnished quarters until the Queen needed his advice, if ever. But, if the girl was being truthful, he was to be free to do as he pleased, with his only duty being showing up at court or at her pleasure. Even he had to admit that it wasn't that bad a deal.

Bowing politely, Dumbledore excused himself, saying, "I shall retire for the evening, then, Your Majesty."

Elizabeth nodded imperiously. "Very well. Good night, Dumbledore. I will be expecting you at court tomorrow morning."

* * *

_**Post-Chapter AN**: Before the blood baying begins over the Queen's deal with Dumbledore, keep this in mind: Elizabeth has **zero** real political clout/influence at the moment. While she's respected and revered as the Queen of the Empire, she's still only 15, and as such, many of the members of Parliament ignore her and act in her stead. By doing this, she shows herself able to think outside of Harry's influence, and yet shows enough cunning to admit the skill of one of her opponents in furthering her ambitions. Basically, she's forging her own road to power, outside of Harry's god-like persona and influence._


	12. Chapter X: A Day At Court

_AN: And here's Chapter 10. Enjoy - MB_

* * *

Even after having been inside the Imperial Court over a dozen times, Harry never failed to be awed at its impressiveness.

With high inner arches carved of white marble and high towers of grey stone, the Imperial Palace, Nova Britannia's finest and quickest architectural project sat on the artificially created islet in the centre of the Nova Britannia archipelago. It connected to all six islands by means of suspended bridges, and stood out as the only building noticeable from all six islands if one was standing on any of the six beaches looking inward.

It was truly the Empire's crown jewel.

And now, standing in the Imperial Audience Hall, Harry once again felt humbled by the experience, despite knowing he was probably going to be relaying bad news. He hadn't read the report yet, having been too busy with taking care of his wife, but ultimately had his gut instinct screaming at him that it couldn't be good news.

His thoughts were interrupted when the herald by the entrance exclaimed, "Her Imperial Majesty, Queen Elizabeth III!"

Like everyone else in the hall, with the exception of the guards, who raised their rifles in salute, Harry bowed low in the direction of the Queen, rotating ever so slightly to match her approximate location until she was seated on the dynastic King Edward's Chair, newly renovated and once again, fully gilded with golden images of lions and the Protestant cross.

"You may rise," declared Elizabeth calmly, if imperiously, marvelling Harry at how well she'd adapted to her role as sovereign.

After her prompt, however, he quickly straightened up, along with the rest of the small crowd in the Audience Hall, all hoping to be heard. Harry could see a group of delegates from the Imperial Central Parliament whispering amongst themselves, as well as his fellow peers, the Earls of Calgary and Kingstown, discussing something in very hushed tones. Over by the other side of the red carpet that led to the throne, Harry also recognized several of the wealthiest merchants in Nova Britannia.

"Everything alright, Harry?"

Harry turned his attention to his wife and nodded pleasantly. Though still weak from her recovery, Ginny was still well enough to assist him in their functions. She also served as an independent voice in matters of intelligence as well, being a former spy. He also knew that, to his right, stood his other chosen assistant, Colonel Sharpe.

"Hmm," he said noncommittally. "Lots of people here today," he observed quietly. After all, that was the way things were done in court.

Colonel Sharpe glanced around him and nodded briefly, sneering as he saw some of the local defeatists there as well. "Scum and citizens," he agreed.

Ginny looked at Sharpe reproachfully. "Not here, Colonel Wolfe. You are here as the guest of my husband."

"Apologies, Madam Duchess," mumbled Sharpe in apology. Ginny gave Sharpe a wry smile before nodding in acceptance.

Harry, for his part, had his eyes locked on a particular figure standing behind and slightly to the left of the throne.

Dumbledore.

Even now, Harry couldn't help the surge of rage that immediately rushed through his veins. Only a quick, hard squeeze to his hand from Ginny restrained him from moving in for the kill.

Eventually, however, he had to push down his feelings as the Queen raised her hand for silence. Once the crowd had quieted, Elizabeth nodded in satisfaction.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Let us get this day's Court in order, then," she announced. Her eyes sought out and found Harry's group and, for a moment, Harry could've sworn that something had flashed through the teenage Queen's eyes as she saw Ginny at his side.

"My dear Halifax," she addressed him directly. "I understand you have news from the relief mission up north?"

Harry nodded and, giving his wife a soft hand squeeze back, stepped forward and, breaking the seal on the letter, took it out and read it aloud.

"To Your Most Gracious Majesty, Queen Elizabeth III of the British Empire," began Harry. "As per Your Majesty's orders, I, Colonel Christian Moore, led elements of the Fourth Legion to mount a relief mission to the Third Legion, with whom we lost contact some time ago in Empire's Helm…"

* * *

Slowly, the five companies of soldiers, all dressed in white winter camouflage, their only distinguishing mark the brown shield badges on their upper left arm sleeve. All had their rifles up cautiously, their eyes darting every which way as they moved closer and closer towards the Imperial-held entrance to Empire's Helm.

In the midst of the moving conglomeration, Colonel Christian Moore moved just as stealthily and quietly as his men, his white-painted pistol out as he hushed orders to the appropriate sergeants.

Slowly, the rescue element got to the entrance, and Moore felt his heart fall as he witnessed the sight before him.

"Upon reaching the entrance, we were met with a most disheartening sight. The Imperial outpost that had once been the site of many a guard unit was now a smouldering ruin."

Moore shook his head as he looked down at the charred bodies of what had once been redcoats. In morbid fascination he looked up to see a particular skeleton hang loosely form a tree branch that had obviously pierced his/her chest.

"What the bloody hell happened here?" shouted one of his men.

"Quiet that man!" barked Moore instantly as he raised his pistol at his surroundings, his men following shortly. After making sure that no ambush was about to spring out at them and do the same as they did to the poor men and women who'd guarded the outpost with their lives, Moore finally lowered his pistol, though he did not holster it.

Glancing over to a random sergeant, Moore nudged his head towards the bodies. "Form a burial detail. Take your pick of seven and give these poor lads a proper burial."

The sergeant nodded grimly before turning and quickly picking his seven "volunteers."

Sitting on a nearby tree trunk, Moore put his head in his hands and sighed, frustrated.

"Looks like we're too late," he said aloud to himself.

"Sir?"

Moore looked up to see a young man standing before him.

"What is it, soldier?" asked Moore tiredly.

"Sir, the lads and I found something odd," mentioned the soldier.

Moore raised an eyebrow. "Odd how?"

The soldier shifted uncomfortably. "Well, tracks, sir. Leading to where the bodies were."

Moore looked frustrated now. "Of course there would be tracks, soldier! They had to rush back from their patrol to defend the outpost!"

The soldier shook his head. "No, sir! Not from outside the valley. The tracks are coming _from_ the valley!"

Moore goggled at the man. "You're telling me these men _ran_?"

The soldier shifted again. "It…would appear so, sir!"

Moore rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Headquarters is _not_ going to like this."

* * *

"I could not believe, Your Majesty, that Imperial soldiers would run from their commitment—from their comrades, friends, and duty, in such a shameful manner; and, for a moment, I considered halting the burial procedure—for no traitor should ever be served with such respect."

* * *

"Sir, please stay calm!" begged a sergeant. "We don't know the full story!"

Moore was furious. He'd dragged his men halfway around the world to see deserters get what they deserved? "I know enough! These men deserted their place and ran like cowards!"

"Sir, no Imperial weapon can do this sort of damage!" implored another sergeant.

That stopped him. Moore considered this as the sergeants sighed in relief.

It was true. No Imperial weapon to his knowledge could cause this sort of damage. Perhaps a more thorough investigation was in order, then?

"Sir!"

Moore turned his head to see the group of scouts he'd sent ahead run back towards the main detachment. The leader of the group, a corporal, jogged up to him and saluted.

"Sir, we found more bodies!" he reported.

Moore's heart fell. More Imperial bodies? "Where?" he asked quickly.

The corporal pointed down the path. "Right after the turn there. Tons of them. Looks like the Third was in full retreat."

Moore was stumped. What was going on? What had made Colonel Longbottom—long known as a bastion of strength and stubbornness in the Imperial Officer Corps (to the point where he was known as "Steadfast Nev" by the public)—retreat this way? Moore felt his bones chill.

"We need to get down there," he declared quickly. "We need to find the rest of the Third."

The sergeants seemed sceptical at this, but agreed anyway. Moore was grateful. Common soldiers usually followed orders far easier if the sergeants agreed with them. For once, Moore cursed himself for not being as popular with the troops as the Duke of Halifax.

"Alright, ten men scout the road ahead. We'll follow with the rest. Leave five behind as a rearguard," he ordered.

Once the appropriate teams were made, with one of the sergeants staying behind, Moore turned to the man and gave his final orders. "If anything comes up behind us, give a volley then retreat to find us. Do not stand and engage," he stressed. "This position is not defensible."

The sergeant nodded at the orders and saluted, which Moore returned.

Looking around him to the gathered men, Moore nodded and shouted the order to advance.

"…and so we moved down the road. As the scouting party had reported, we came across masses of bodies, leaving us to believe that part of the Third was in full retreat when they were cut down. However, the number we found did not total up to the entire Third, and so we decided to continue down to the Helm, ready to engage any enemy of the Crown…"

Moore held up a fist as the man in point did the same. Instantly, the whole detachment halted.

Moving forward to the point-man, he asked, "What is it, soldier?"

"Smoke," said the soldier, pointing to the pillar of said black smoke that was rising ahead. Unfortunately, all they could see was the top of the pillar, as the rest was occluded by mountains.

Moore nodded. Turning around, he made hand signs to indicate the smoke, then gave the order to resume movement.

* * *

"…I decided, Your Majesty, to continue nonetheless, despite knowing, in my heart, that the base at Empire's Helm was no more. The pillar of smoke—herald most vile of our defeat—merely gave me more impetus to find out what had happened—what army had been responsible for our men's tragic end. We were, however, not ready for what we found…"

* * *

Moore stared. There was nothing else he could do, after all.

And so Moore stared.

Behind him, he absently heard someone retching, and felt the man's disgust as if it were his own.

After all, what else could you do when you found yourself standing in a field covered with British dead?

"What happened here?" he heard one of the sergeants whisper in horror.

"I don't know," admitted Moore as he stared, wide-eyed, at the field of horrors before him.

"This wasn't a battle, it was a bloody blood bath!" he heard a soldier cry out in anguish.

"Quiet that man!" ordered Moore instantly. The last thing he wanted was a full-scale panic. After all, the Third was made of elites—what chance had they against a foe that so easily took down one of the Empire's greatest fighting forces?

Hours later, the detachment had begun collecting the dead and massing them next to a ditch a group of the rescuers were beginning to dig as a grave.

At the same time, Moore was meeting with his sergeants.

"Anyone have an estimate?" asked Moore quietly.

"Approximately three quarters of the Third are accounted for," replied one of the sergeants quietly and gravely. "That's not counting those that are most likely pulverized out of existence."

Moore nodded and one of the sergeants lit up a cigarette. "We checked out the fort, too," claimed that man.

"And?"

"Nothing. The entire garrison was slaughtered. No one left alive."

"And Colonel Longbottom?" asked Moore.

"Missing," grunted another sergeant. "He wasn't with the bodies in the field, or in the fort."

Moore didn't know whether that comforted him or not. "Weaponry?"

"No wands," answered the first sergeant. "Couldn't find a single, non-Imperial wand."

"Death Eaters probably took them with them," dismissed the second sergeant.

Moore looked sceptical, but said nothing. "It's odd, though," put in the third sergeant.

"What is, sergeant?"

"Did anyone else see any footprints leading _towards_ the fort?"

* * *

Harry was pale now as he continued reading, noticing peripherally that the entire Court was sombre, and that many a woman in it was weeping.

"…indeed, as Sergeant Cooper had noticed, we could not find any footprints that would lead us to believe that an army assaulted the fort. We are stumped, Your Majesty. At this moment, we are finishing burial preparations for our fallen Third comrades. My estimates dictate that we should be returning back to base in five days. Ever loyal, signed Colonel Christian Moore, Fourth Imperial Legion."

With that, Harry silently folded up the letter as the court erupted in whispers and indignant cries.

"Halifax," stated Elizabeth loudly, silencing her court as all eyes fell on Harry. "What make you of this report? What action should we take?"

Harry thought for a moment before answering. "Your Majesty, Empire's Helm, while a fantastic foothold in capturing more Canadian territory, is not _vital_," he declared. "In fact, in taking Empire's Helm, it required our men to go behind enemy lines—and thus, beyond allied support—and safely traverse it to enter the valley. We should, in my opinion, abandon Empire's Helm and launch an attack further up. Preferably, against Montreal."

Sounds of agreement permeated the room, and Elizabeth herself seemed willing to accept this. Dumbledore, however, moved forward. "And what of movement east?" he asked.

"How so, Dumbledore?" asked Elizabeth. She was observing the older man carefully, as if finally weighing his usefulness to her. While she knew full well that the older wizard disliked her on principle, she had nonetheless hired him in a show of independent decision-making, which had been her intention; she wanted everyone to know she was not the puppet of anyone in her staff; that she was master of her person and mind.

The elderly wizard straightened up. "While I can understand attacking the Death Eaters and capturing lost Imperial territories, perhaps we should also launch the first of a series of attacks on the Death Eaters in Europe. I'm sure that, with careful negotiations, we could also convince the Irish to join the Imperial cause and rebel against their Death Eater oppressors."

The capture of the Irish island five months ago had been a harsh blow to the Imperial cause. Unfortunately, the Death Eaters had been smart about it, and so Nova Britannia had failed to hear of its capture until a few days ago, when a boat filled with refugees finally arrived at the new British capital.

"We hold no territory in that area, however," protested Harry. "McDonald holds Gibraltar, and he won't recognize the Crown's authority."

"A problem in and of itself!" inserted one of the Parliament delegates, much to the agreement of his peers. "The rebels must be brought down first before we can safely expand our borders once more!"

"My company has already lost seven ships due to O'Connor, and we've been outright blocked from trading with our European allies by McDonald's fleet!" added one of the wealthy merchants in the room amongst the rising volume of agreement.

"At what cost?" protested one of the men Sharpe had termed 'defeatists.' "Can we really impose our will on McDonald's lands? Or O'Connor, for that matter?"

"Is the honourable sir saying we should just abandon those lands to pirates?" demanded one of the merchants. "Their existence is an affront to our Empire—a tarnishing ink blot on our name!"

"The honourable sir would have us believe that the pirates are a menace to our every day way of life," shot back the protester. "But how great a threat can they both be if they have to resort to piracy to sustain their military?"

"Don't mistake disgraceful methodology for weakness, sir," intruded Sharpe sharply. "O'Connor was a decorated officer of the Royal Navy before the coup. McDonald was equally decorated in the Army. Neither man is incompetent, and both have been known to use underhanded tactics as preludes for all out assaults."

The dissenting man and his group snorted or sighed derisively and dismissively, respectively. "Please. Why would they?" asked their leader. "They have achieved the independence they wanted, no?"

Sharpe shook his head. "Hardly," he stated snidely. "McDonald and O'Connor don't just want independence—they want to use a vacant throne as justification for their ambitions, so as to make it easier for their soldiers to swallow some of the actions they take. With Her Majesty on the throne, their position is threatened, even from within."

"Your Grace, what do you think?" asked Elizabeth towards Harry, quickly interceding in the argument before it got too heated. Regardless, it wasn't as if any of this was legally binding. Whatever they discussed here, she would simply use to determine a general policy, but the specifics would ultimately fall to Parliament, who could still scrub the policy, if it was deemed unfeasible. It was a statement to how much Harry was respected, however, that he was asked rather than Sulu, who didn't seem fazed by this.

Harry cupped his chin with his hand while he thought. "O'Connor is a pest, I will grant you that," Harry conceded. "He is, however, also well-armed. Not as well as us, granted, but well enough to be worrisome, if left well enough alone."

Harry glanced at Ginny for a moment and, receiving a smile in return from his wife, straightened up and turned completely towards the Queen. "Furthermore, the only fleet we have in the area ready for battle is the First Fleet, the Nova Britannia Defence Fleet, under the command of Admiral Staples. If we deploy the First, the six islands are undefended."

Elizabeth seemed to accept this, as did most of the assembled people. The Queen, however, had one further question.

"If we were to engage the pirates, under normal circumstances, could we win?"

Harry needed no time to think it over.

"Absolutely."


	13. Chapter XI: Family

_AN: Sorry for the delay -- Classes and such are taking a huge chunk of my time. - MB_

_PS: To the reviewer named jon -- I understand your views and I respect them. However, I would pose the following question: could you guarantee, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if the only option for the US to survive was to ally with "terrorists" that control foreign government, that they would not, on sheer principle?_

* * *

Harry cursed as he paced his office at Airfleet Headquarters. Why hadn't he shut his mouth? Why did he have to reply so quickly?

After Harry's supreme show of confidence in the capability of the Imperial Navy, there had been an immediate call for war against the pirates. Tybalt had been, to say the least, _very_ displeased with Harry. For once, Harry was glad that duelling amongst officers had been banned in the Imperial Armed Forces.

"Pacing will do you no good, Your Grace," Allison informed her boss pragmatically. "Only delay the problem-solving."

Harry glared at his former mistress but nodded eventually. "Right," he conceded reluctantly before rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Send out orders to the _HMIS Retaliation_. Tell Wolf to send out the…_Queen Anne_,_ Leopold_, _Conqueror_, and _Inquirer_ in distance support to the First Imperial Fleet."

Silently, Allison nodded and wrote down the orders on her notepad.

"Also, find out when the _Magnificent_ and _Icarus_ will be ready for deployment, and when the _Protector_ will have its repairs finished."

Allison nodded once more. "While we're on that, Captain Jones filed his report on the engagement in the Mid-Atlantic Sector," she told Harry.

Harry nodded. "Great. Send it over to Intelligence and we'll see what they can figure out from it. Any word from the _Escort_? Have they picked up the Fourth?" he asked.

Allison flipped through her notepad and eventually nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. They called in two hours ago and are en route towards Halifax."

Harry nodded in satisfaction. "Good, good. Anything I'm missing?" he asked.

Allison flipped through her notes again before pointing out, "The European scouting mission should be radioing in fifteen minutes."

Harry nodded. "Remind me who I sent?"

"The _HMIS_ _Queen's Eye_, under Captain Nolan. He, in turn, deployed Jupiter Squadron to do the rounds."

Harry nodded.

"Any other reports?" he asked.

A quick check had Allison nodding once more. "Yes, sir. Battlegroup Eulogy has reported that the Egyptian fleet has decreased its patrols. Air Admiral Malan does not recommend attack just yet, but does concede that if patrols are decreased further, an attempt should be made to recover Cairo."

"What about Admirals Brown and Marshall?"

"Admiral Marshall reports a concentration of Death Eater ships around New Guinea. The Admiral's ANZAC components have put their air defences on the highest level of readiness."

"And Brown?"

"Admiral Brown reports a withdrawal of many American and Death Eater ships from the front lines. Not enough to venture an attack, but enough that their location is worrisome."

Harry nodded, mentally mapping the different events. In the end, he realized he needed a far more material representation and so walked over towards the enormous map covering the entirety of his left-side wall and, asking Allison to repeat the reports, drew the events on it.

After he was done, he stepped back with a frown. Everything indicated a concentration of forces in Asia. Still, he could not understand why. Australia was a firm bastion of Imperial resistance, and with the new MEG Propelled Anti-Airship Guns he'd sent over to Sydney and New Atlantis, there was no way the Death Eater could truly hope to retake Australia.

He voiced this concern out loud, saying, "What the hell are they playing at?"

"Sir?"

Harry looked back at Allison with an apologetic look. "Sorry, Allison. I just don't get it," he admitted reluctantly as he turned his attention back to his map. "What are the Death Eaters doing? Everything points to the Pacific, but it's one of our most well-defended regions. They'd have to be crazy to try and attack Australia and New Zealand."

Allison shrugged. "I'm sorry, sir, but I have no idea either."

Harry growled at that, though Allison took no offence. She knew Harry was just feeling frustrated. Though the pretty redheaded woman would have, in the past, used her body in order to relieve her benefactor of his stress, she now knew, and rejoiced all the more for it, that he instead would rely on his own wife for soothing counsel.

Allison watched carefully as the Duke straightened his glasses and kept reading through reports, careful in taking notes of everything he said. Eventually, a good two hours later, Harry had finished putting everything in order.

"Finally," sighed Harry in relief as he slumped against his _very_ comfortable chair. "One last thing, Allison. Please inform Commander Wolf to prepare the _Retaliation_ battlegroup for deployment. We'll need to set out in two days. Preferably six in the morning. With any luck, O'Connor will be pacified by nightfall."

"Of course, Your Grace," replied Allison dutifully. "Will that be all, Your Grace?"

Harry silently nodded as he rubbed the bridge of his nose, barely noticing Allison leaving the room. Sighing as he was left alone in his office, Harry rubbed his temples in a hopeless attempt at fighting off an oncoming headache. Frustrated by his failure to do so, he got up, grabbed his overcoat, then left himself.

Harry's frustration held out even as he sat in the living room of his home on the northern island, which he'd named the Imperial Manor. Modelled after the original Potter Complex's Main House, it was nonetheless customized to include a magically expanded room he used as a library and massive study room. After his parents' reported survival, every Potter artefact and book recovered from the Conservatory of Knowledge prior to the fall of the British Isles was placed into this new facility (which had forced Harry to have the room expanded further). It was, by far, the most complete collection of books and magical artefacts in the world, as far as most scholars were concerned.

The centrepiece of the room was the recovered Statue of Gryffindor, which allegedly depicted Gryffindor's slaying of Slytherin, though Harry wasn't so sure. In his own opinion (and that of many of his ancestors, he found), it probably depicted a metaphorical image of Gryffindor slaying evil in general. They reinforced that theory by noting that while Gryffindor is acutely identified by the markings of his garments, the prostrate man at his feet wore no such identifying marks—and any Dark Lord would have been odd indeed if they had not made sure that their mark was visible at all times.

His musings on the statue were interrupted, however, when the soft, yet distinct sound of a violin playing caught in his ears. More intriguingly, it did not sound bad at all. Getting up from his desk, he made his way over towards the double doors leading to the music room, where he sometimes spent his time playing his violin—usually heartrending ballads or songs of loss.

But this song, this song that so penetrated his ear, spoke to him neither of sorrow, nor of loss—two feelings he had become well accustomed to. Rather, it spoke of love, and patience. Softly now, he could hear words being sung. Immediately, he recognized his wife's voice, and its implications struck him. He had never truly considered that during their parting, she may have improved in her music, or even broached singing. Pain filled his heart as he realized that despite having had a brief romantic moment during her awakening, he had not allocated much of his time to find out how her life had been.

Granted, the first few weeks after her awakening were spent by Harry in shock as Ginny dropped the rather large bombshell that he'd been a proud father for a little over five years now. A day after Ginny's awakening, he'd been finally introduced to his daughter, whom Harry had to catch himself from crying in front of. She looked so much like her mother, with the exception of her eyes—for they were his Killing Curse green eyes—, that it merely served to reinforce how much he'd missed out on. The fact that she'd almost immediately accepted him as her father had only served to accentuate this feeling.

What caught his attention next, however, was not a sound. It was neither voice, nor music, nor noise. What caught his attention was the definite _lack_ of sound that suddenly reigned. As his eyes shifted back into focus, he saw that the doors had been opened (magically, he assumed), and that his wife was looking at him with a smile as she rested her violin on her lap.

"Did you like it?" she asked simply.

Unwilling to try his voice (lest it broke with emotion), Harry merely nodded. He was summarily rewarded with a dazzling smile from his wife, causing him to feel his knees weaken. She would no doubt enjoy knowing that, he mused silently. She'd always gotten a kick out of making Harry feel weak in the knees by her presence.

"I practiced every day I could, you know," stated Ginny, startling him from his thoughts (one again). "Ever since…that day…I've practiced every day, hoping one day you'd be here with me, listening and telling me how good it was."

Harry said nothing as she looked towards a nearby window. The sun was setting, and the yellow light cast a picturesque light on her, causing him to inadvertently suck in his breath.

"I know about…her, you know," she suddenly said.

Harry felt his body grow cold. "What do you mean?" he asked neutrally.

Hurt, brown eyes turned towards him. "You deny it?" she asked. It surprised Harry that his denial seemed to hurt her more than anything. "You deny having had a fling with Allison McIntyre?"

Harry felt his rational mind scream out orders to say yes, but in the end, he went with what he knew was the right thing to do. "No."

A moment of silence passed between the two estranged lovers before Ginny's countenance changed to relief, much to Harry's surprise.

"You are not angry with me, my love?" he asked cautiously.

Ginny allowed a small laugh to escape her rosy lips before raising two fingers to her own mouth, in a move to silence herself. "Oh, I'm displeased, mister Potter," she said sardonically at length, her index finger placed right underneath his chin. "But I _am_ relieved that you did not lie to me about such an important matter in regards to our marriage and relationship."

Harry raised an eyebrow at this explanation, causing Ginny to giggle once more.

"How did you know?" he finally asked.

Ginny rose an elegant eyebrow and gave him a saucy smile. "I'm a spy, love. It's my job to know what goes on around me."

Harry smirked as he watched his wife regain that vivacity that had always attracted him so much. Taking a few large steps forward, he soon had her in his arms and, leaning down, planted a firm, hungry kiss on her lips, which she gladly returned.

When they finally broke for air, Ginny was breathing heavily, and her eyes were half-lidded as she looked at him with open lust. "I missed that," she told him bluntly.

Harry gave her a feral smile. "So did I."

"What about the McIntyre girl?" she asked.

"A pastime, my love. Nothing more."

Ginny smiled in a pleased manner. "Good. Saves me the trouble of having to kill her for getting that intimate with you."

Harry grinned at that. "You know, that sort of talk always made me love you even more," he remarked.

Ginny's eyebrows shot upwards at this as she smirked playfully. "Is that so?"

Harry merely nodded with a smile as he leaned in once more and, kissing his wife, remembered that no matter how long they had been apart, what war had torn them from each other, they would still always have their love for each other.

Hours later, Ginny woke up to see her husband lean against the frame at the back of their bed, his muscular, scarred chest naked to her eye as his green eyes looked clouded in thought.

"Penny for your thoughts," she offered as she turned and leaned on her shoulder as she looked at him.

Green eyes turned to meet her own chocolate eyes, and some amusement glittered in them.

"It'd cost you more than that to know what I'm thinking, love," he teased as one hand stroked her cheek. Ginny purred contentedly as she leaned into his hand.

"I was thinking of Sarah, actually," he told her after a moment.

"Oh?"

"Yeah…it feels weird, still. To know she's my daughter, I mean," he told her as she opened her eyes and looked up at him worriedly.

"How come?" she asked.

Harry shrugged. "I guess…it doesn't feel real, in a way. I mean, I wasn't there for her birth…I never saw her take her first steps, say her first words, you know?" he mused out loud. "I mean, I _know_ she's mine. With her looks and that personality, how could she not?"

"Ego trip there, mister!" teased Ginny as she poked him in the ribs, hoping to get him out of such a dark train of thought.

Harry chuckled for a moment before his thoughtful countenance returned. Seeing this, Ginny finally began to get worried.

"Harry, do you…" she dreaded the possible answer to her question. "…do you…_not_ like Sarah?"

Stunned green eyes shot towards her as Harry's jaw dropped.

"What?" he asked, dumbfounded. He then quickly gathered Ginny into a tight hug to him. "Of course I love Sarah!" he reassured her. "How could I not?"

Ginny gave a tremulous smile at that. "It's just…a big step…I mean, I didn't know whether you even _wanted_ children to begin with!" she admitted. "You know, during those years in Panama, my biggest fear was always that you'd reject Sarah…"

"Oh, honey…" Harry comforted her as he tightened his hug around her. "I adore our daughter! She's living proof of what you and I have!" he told her firmly. "And now, I have something else to fight for!"

Looking up curiously, Ginny asked, "What's that?"

Harry gave her a smile. "To build a world for my daughter. A safe, war-free world, where she needn't ever have to fear some bigot coming after her for her bloodline. A world where she could be happy and never fear losing that happiness, even after we're gone."

Ginny smiled brilliantly at her husband as she leaned up and kissed him gently. Breaking it off quickly, she looked at him with a proud look.

"You are a wonderful man, Harry Potter. Whatever your faults, you always seem to rise above them," she told him sincerely. "And for what it's worth, I'm sure you'll give our daughter the world you dream of creating."

Harry smiled down at his wife and, simply whispering a quick, "Thank you," he leaned down and pressed his lips against hers, soon losing himself in her.

For the first time in years, Harry would find his sleep untroubled by dark nightmares of horrors past.

No torment to find in the lasting darkness.

No thoughts of bloodshed and screams of pain.

For once, if only for this one time, all he dreamt of was peace.


	14. Interlude: The Eagle's Wisdom

_AN: Sorry for the massive delay. Been working hard to stay in the Go Global Exchange Program my university has so I can go to England in January._

_Anywho, this takes place about two weeks after "Family." Enjoy!  
_

* * *

Bill Weasley was simply not in the mood for this.

It had been a pleasant day, altogether, until his youngest brother had shown up at his and the Roberts' lab, undoubtedly trying to weasel him back to Dumbledore's side, not that Bill was interested; hell, the work he did on an _hourly_ basis was more rewarding than playing vigilante.

Looking over at his rambling brother, as well as at the brunette genius that had accompanied him, Bill revised his judgment. While his brother was grating his nerves, Hermione seemed like a child in a candy shop. Everywhere around her, gadgets and machines seem to be having a life of their own as they performed complex operations that, without the magical power that Bill and the Roberts' had instilled in them, would be impossible. They had simply done this, in lieu of getting more personnel, simply because it cut down on costs and time.

Finally, however, Bill had enough of his brother's ramblings. Lifting his hand in a halting motion, Bill cut right into his brother's latest tirade—for once glad that his superiors weren't in the lab, since this whole event was rather embarrassing to Bill on a personal level.

"Look, Ron," he started, annoyed. "How many times do I need to tell you people? _I don't care_," he enunciated each word slowly and carefully, so as to make sure his audience fully comprehended the meaning in his words—that he really didn't care.

"Oh, come on, Bill—" Ron started to protest, but Bill quickly cut through his incoming tirade.

"_No_, Ron. I don't want to hear it," he stated sternly. "I want no part in Dumbledore's little clique. It's boring and misguided, and frankly, obsolete. The work I do here is far more rewarding than working for Dumbledore would ever be."

"Since when have you cared about money so much? What are they paying you?" demanded Ron, obviously misinterpreting Bill's words, although Bill guessed it wasn't on purpose—his brother was just _that_ dense.

Bill sighed. "It's not the money, Ron," he told his hot-headed younger brother as he scratched some observations on the pad he'd been carrying around. The project before him was a potentially new energy source—a more efficient version of the Magical Energy Generator technology. Unfortunately, it was months—perhaps even years away from viable usage outside the laboratory.

The next project in his rounds was not as far-fetched. With a flick of his wand, ignoring his brother's every word as he moved around the lab, he had the prototype new rifle for the Army lift from it's place and aim at a designated target. With another flick, it fired, loudly, giving Bill a brief recess from hearing his brother rant about the evils of the Empire. Instead, Bill scratched down some notes regarding the apparent lack of real power in the prototype shells. A pity, he realized, since the Armed Forces were really hoping to have the Hybrid version of a shotgun ready for deployment in the next offensive. Bill sighed—he was certain Maximilian would get reproached for the delay, but there was little they could do—with so many projects already under way, and very little people understanding the physics and magical theory behind Hybrid technology, there was very little room for acceleration of project development.

Eyeing Hermione from the corner of his eye—the girl seemed completely absorbed by the sheer wealth of knowledge around her—Bill wished that she hadn't been so deeply rooted into Dumbledore's camp; they could use her brilliant mind in the lab.

The project after the failed prototype shotgun, however, silenced Ron as they advanced towards it. It was Bill's own personal pet project—a suit. Namely, a battle suit. Decades from actual usage, some of the parts had already actually been built already, but none functioned the way he had designed them to. The next generation in warfare, he was nonetheless incapable of getting the hybrid technology to adapt to the circumstances he demanded of it. He hadn't lost hope, however, and so now prepared to try one of the most recent parts he'd ordered made—the hand-imbedded, _Reductor_-spell-shooting firing mechanism. He just hoped that it worked. A catastrophic failure could very well mean levelling his corner of the lab.

"You might want to step away for a second," he warned Ron and Hermione as he put down his notepad and donned the skeletal-looking piece of armour.

For the first time in what was maybe an hour, Hermione snapped out of her ecstasy-induced absentmindedness and looked at Bill concernedly. "Why?" she asked. "That device _does_ work, right?"

"Oh, sure, it works," assured Bill. "…most of the time."

"_Most of the time_?" asked Ron in a high-pitched voice.

"Well, it worked last time and took out the assigned target," he told them impatiently. He then paused for a moment and hurriedly whispered, "…andthewholeeastwall."

Both Ron and Hermione quickly retreated behind something solid-looking, leaving Bill alone with his highly-dangerous and fallible weapon strapped to his arm.

Shrugging—and slightly congratulating himself for getting Ron to shut up—Bill slowly raised his arm, now weighed down by the exoskeleton firing device, and aimed it at the assigned target. It wasn't far—he hadn't designed this test for range capability, but for actual viability—and when he was certain he had the target in his sights, Bill brought out a handheld recording device and turned it on.

"Sunday, September seventh, Two-thousand-seven; Bill Weasley recording test findings for the X-Three-oh-Three project's firing mechanism. Target is in sight, and power output has been reduced to one percent, in light of previous attempt's destruction of the east wall at ten percent."

Bill was sweating now—half due to the weight of the actual device, half due to his nervousness. Nonetheless, he continued with his vocal report. "Pre-test calibrations were within range, and none of the last attempt's fallacies could be detected. Firing begins in ten seconds."

Leaving the recorder on, he put it down on the desk as he used his now-free arm to support the heavier one. Counting down slowly, aware that Hermione and Ron were peeking from their hiding place, Bill closed his eyes and looked away as he reached the end of his countdown, just as the firing device began to audibly power up.

"Here goes nothing," he mumbled as he heard the device audibly reach its peak. "Firing the device!"

With a loud bang that also jerked his arm almost out of its socket as it rocketed back from the recoil, the device launched a massive _Reductor_ energy bolt at the target, literally decimating it, until nothing—not even visible dust—remained of it. To Bill's relief, the wall behind the target was intact, but the recoil of the device worried him—so much so that he failed to notice that the massive blast had covered his front in soot and put his hair on end. Still, as far as tests went with _any_ part of his armoured suit, this was a huge success—if only by virtue of not ending in catastrophic failure.

Coughing slightly as the stench of the soot finally registered in his mind, Bill updated the situation verbally on his recorder. "Test…cough…a success," he coughed again. "Recoil needs—cough—more revision, and power output still too high—target has been completely decimated."

The latter was the biggest problem in his mind, since it meant that the power source they were using was simply overkill in the suit. Then again, they should have seen it coming, considering that they were using one of the MEG's power crystals, which was about as full of fission-induced energy as it was full of raw magical power.

Coughing a bit more as he took off the device, he barely registered Ron and Hermione marching down on him, both seemingly shaken with the devastating demonstration of power he'd just performed—all of which was completely lost on the eldest Weasley brother, since he was used to exploding things by now.

"What was _that?_" demanded Ron, just as Hermione shrieked out, "Are you _insane?_"

Bill grinned. "_That_, little brother, was the X-Three-oh-Three's firing mechanism," he told him proudly, before absently responding to Hermione. "And no, I'm not insane."

Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Are you sure? Do you have any idea what you've just _done_?" she asked impatiently.

Bill nodded absently as he checked off the test on his notepad. "I've just successfully tested a weapon that could revolutionize the way we compartmentalize magical and normal energy," he stated matter-of-factly. "Why? What do you _think_ I've done?"

Hermione's eyes widened with indignant fury as she misinterpreted Bill's lack of reaction for condescension. "Beyond breaking a few of the rules of physics, you've created a monstrosity of death!" she shrieked.

Bill looked at Hermione worryingly for a moment. He was slightly revisiting his opinion of the intelligent brunette, as she seemed to be rashly interpreting the experiment. "First of all, I did not break, as you say, the laws of physics," he told her calmly. "The target hasn't been erased from existence…it's just…in _very_ small pieces." Here, Bill coughed in embarrassment as he admitted that the power output might have been still too high. "Besides, this is why I was hired."

"To create weapons of mass destruction?!" shrieked Hermione.

"To push the borders of the human understanding of the world around us," calmly corrected Bill. "What that suit single-handedly tells us is the power of a fraction of a milligram of a plutonium shell within which is a concentrated Reductor spell."

Hermione's eyes bulged. "_That's what's powering that machine of death?!_"

Bill shrugged. "Any bigger and the island wouldn't exist."

Ron seemed about ready to faint away, realizing the meaning of his brother's words. Bill, however, paid no attention and with a flick of his wand had all the soot vanished. Checking his itinerary, he rose a surprised eyebrow at the next item on the list.

"Sorry, guys, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave now," he told them formally. Sure, he was glad to see them go, but he had been willing to tolerate their presence for a while longer. Work, however, called.

"Why's that, Bill?" asked Ron, suspicious.

Bill rolled his eyes and looked at the duo impatiently. "Look, I've been nice until now. I've let you see things other people would probably kill to see. Now, however, I've got something important to do. So, please leave."

Ron seemed about to protest, but something in Bill's tone made Hermione realize how serious Bill felt about this next assignment, and so she stopped her significant other from opening his mouth with a light touch to the arm. "Ron, come on. Dumbledore's waiting for us," she told him softly, but with a tone of finality.

Ron still seemed reluctant to obey, but gave in eventually, leading the way out. Just as Hermione was about to follow him out, however, she turned to look Bill straight in the eye. "I hope you don't regret what you've chosen to do, Bill," she told him seriously, before leaving and closing the door.

Bill sighed in relief as the duo left. He chuckled as he made his way to a door on the far end of the lab. "Regret it?" he mused as he opened the door and went down the stairs to the heavily guarded lab underground. "Why should I regret it?"

After showing his ID to the heavily armed guards at the bottom of the stairs, he entered the underground lab and smiled at the experiment going underway. Three large, liquid-filled, cylindrical containers took up the middle of the room, and people in front of computers surrounded the three containers. Inside the containers, shadowy figures could be seen.

"Sir, Project Valkyrie is performing beyond expectations," reported one of the scientists. Bill smiled.

"Don't you worry, Hermione," he spoke to himself softly as he lay a hand on the central tube. "I don't regret it at all."

Bill looked up at the figure within the tube and smiled. Flowing, red hair floated within the clear liquid, attached to the naked body of a woman.

"This is all for his vision," he spoke softly. "There is nothing to regret at all."


	15. Chapter XII: Beginning of the End

_AN: Here's the next chapter, uploaded quickly to make up for the horrible lack of chapters in past weeks, if not months ._

_Anyway, regarding the length of the chapters, I'm really sorry if it doesn't meet your length expectations, but please bear in mind that these used to be one long document that I've just cut up into arbitrary chapters. I've done the best I can to ensure that each chapter focuses on specific events, which could also explain the shortness of some of them. Again, my apologies._

_Marquis_

* * *

_Over the Mid-Atlantic Area…_

Captain Matthew Nolan of the _HMIS Queen's Eye_, one of the new, smaller scouting-based Assault Ships, was bored. Like his predecessors, he'd been tasked to scout out two things in Europe: the European Imperial Resistance's forces, and those of the Death Eaters and their collaborators.

The first had been a simple run. A few patrols from the single fighter squadron they had, Jupiter Squadron, had shown that the EIR's power base had not increased at all, and that they remained a minor threat to the Empire.

The second, however, was proving to be more elusive—something that, while Nolan should have felt more wary about, was merely being written off as changed Death Eater routines—something that, for any other captain, would have been far more alarming, considering it took something quite drastic to force the Death Eaters to change their routines.

"Sir!" called out one technician. "Jupiter Leader reports nothing in quadrant seven!"

"Jupiter Twelve reports the same in quadrant eight, sir!" chimed in another technician.

Nolan yawned in boredom. "Order Jupiter Squadron to expand their search for the Death Eater patrol one quadrant," he ordered lazily. Oh, what he wouldn't give to be back at the Imperial Capital, enjoying a nice drink in his house.

"Sir, are you sure it's wise to leave ourselves so open?" asked Nolan's worried XO, Commander Henry Fitzroy. "Military regulations require us to radio in to Headquarters under our circumstances…"

Nolan waved off Fitzroy's concerns. "Nonsense, Commander. The Death Eaters are probably late on patrol, or some such nonsense."

Fitzroy wasn't so sure, but he had to admit, there _were _precedents. "Even so, Captain, I strongly urge you to bring Jupiter squadron closer to us. If the patrol if late, then it stands to reason they'll show up on the pre-determined lanes."

Nolan gave his subordinate a superior, if condescending look. "My dear Commander, you really must learn to calm yourself. This is a _routine_ patrol. We've done this a thousand times!"

Fitzroy still wasn't so sure, but kept his tongue still this time. He knew that to push the issue could have him taken away from the deck and if his worries were correct, then someone _competent_ had to remain on deck to command a fighting retreat at worst.

"Radar contact!" finally came the shout from what the men were calling "the pit," where all the consoles were gathered.

"Report!" ordered Fitzroy immediately, while Nolan sighed at his subordinate's zeal.

"Two fighter-sized contacts heading towards Jupiter Leader's segment!"

"Order Jupiter Leader to fall back towards the _Eye_ and to lose the bogeys!" ordered Fitzroy.

"Belay that order," snapped Nolan immediately. "Have Jupiter squadron engage and destroy the enemy fighters."

Fitzroy turned towards Nolan, surprised. "But sir!"

Nolan glared at Fitzroy now. "I have tolerated your zeal quite patiently until now, Commander. We are at war, and we have a mandate from the Queen herself to engage our enemies wherever we find them."

'A mandate that applies to _fighting_ ships _only_!' Fitzroy's mind screamed in protest. Outwardly, however, he was unable to voice this, as he was sure that Nolan would have him confined in the brig for insubordination if he continued.

"Jupiter squadron moving to engage target," reported one of the radar technicians.

"Put them on speaker," ordered Nolan, which the communications officer did immediately.

"_This is Jupiter Lead to all units: Move in for a two-pronged attack. Jupiter Six, take your flight on an eastern approach and I'll lead mine into a western approach,"_ crackled Jupiter Leader's voice through the speakers on deck.

"_Copy that, Jupiter Lead. Six taking flight into eastern approach,"_ came the reply.

Nolan glanced sideways at Fitzroy with a superior smug, while the younger, more cautious man looked towards the radar officer with some worry.

After a few seconds, Jupiter Leader's voice crackled through the radio again.

"_This is Jupiter Leader. I have a visual on inbound bogeys. Looks like two dragons. Welshes from what I can see."_

"_Roger that, Jupiter Lead. Confirm visual on two—repeat, two Welsh dragons,"_ came a similar call from Jupiter Six.

"Roger that, Jupiter Squadron. Proceed to engage target," answered the comm officer on deck.

"_Roger, Queen's Eye. Jupiter Squadron moving in for the kill."_

Nolan and Fitzroy watched the overhead display as the 12 green dots representing Jupiter Squadron moved in on the 2 solitary red dots. Exhilaration and foreboding dominated their minds, respectively, as both held very opposite views of the event about to occur.

For his part, Nolan believed this was the quickest way up the promotion ladder. After all, most of the other patrol officers contented themselves with staying back and fulfilling their boring patrol missions. But he, on the other hand, he had managed to do that _and _bring down two enemy dragons, which were always a hassle on the Imperial Air Force.

Fitzroy, on the other hand, saw this for what it probably was—a textbook trap. While not entirely unusual, Death Eater dragon squadrons tended to be close to their launching points—usually dumbed down Death Eater replicas of the Imperial Assault ships. Therefore, there was no reason for two Death Eater dragons to be simply flying around a routinely patrolled area for no reason.

What was more worrisome for Fitzroy was the fact that Death Eaters weren't this smart. While they occasionally did launch ambushes, they were usually crude and easily beaten off. This particular one, however, was an advanced trap that he'd learned at the now-renamed Imperial Academy in Harrisburg, when it was still called Duke Military Academy, under the direct supervision of the Duke of Halifax, for whom it was named.

If the dragons reacted to the attack as he imagined, then one of them would go on a suicide run against Jupiter squadron, while the other, upon the first's death, would retreat. Typically, exhilarated by the kill, the tactic extrapolated that the attacking fighters would pursue, thinking there was no other threat nearby.

Which was when the trap would be sprung—usually by two or more airships hidden in cloud cover.

The problem was, Fitzroy couldn't see a cloud in sight in the bright summer afternoon. Therefore, if the dragons were pulling off the ambush, then he couldn't see where the ambushers would be hiding.

This was too odd. Too…complex.

When the alarm began blaring seconds later, Fitzroy knew he'd been right.

"Report!" barked Fitzroy.

"Multiple radar contacts suddenly appeared, sir!" said one of the radar operators.

"Location?" asked Fitzroy, as Nolan was left gaping like a dumbstruck goldfish. He'd bought the Death Eaters' bait hook, line, and sinker.

"Directly ahead, sir. Visual of the enemy confirms two Assault Ships, bearing Death Eater markings, _Retaliation_-Class _at least_."

"Action stations!" yelled Fitzroy over the alarm klaxons. "Recall Jupiter Squadron! Turn the _Eye_ around and set escape route back to Harrisburg!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" the deck resounded with the call.

Pointing at the gunnery controller, Fitzroy kept giving his orders. "Have the exposed decks open fire on the oncoming enemy! Order for delaying fire solutions!"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Fitzroy then turned to the pilot. "Bring the ship about ninety degrees, then full speed towards Harrisburg!"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

"RADAR CONTACT!"

Fitzroy spun towards the radar technician, surprised. "What?"

"Fifteen ships have appeared onscreen!" the man relayed frantically, a hint of panic in his voice. "No, sixteen—twenty-one!" he corrected rapidly. "Ships are still appearing! Thirty and counting!

"Dear god," whispered Nolan as he came to his senses. "What have we stumbled upon?"

"Sixty ships!"

"They're invading," Fitzroy said after a moment of contemplative, if alarmed, silence. As Nolan turned to him, horrified, Fitzroy pressed on. "It's the only thing that makes sense. All the withdrawals from the fronts, all the changes…they've been massing an attack force."

A violent shudder threw Nolan and Fitzroy off their feet.

"IMPACT!" shouted one of the technicians. "Shields are being battered! Aft hull is breached in sections fifteen through twenty!"

"Order a team to the area to seal the breach!" ordered Nolan, while Fitzroy turned to the shield technician.

"How much more can we take?"

The man shook his head. "Two more shots and we're defenceless!"

As the ship shook from close shots and direct impacts, Fitzroy turned to Nolan with a grim look. "We won't survive this, Captain."

Nolan, who'd looked panicky so far, now erupted into a full-blown panic attack. "No! NO! I can't die here! There has to be something! Anything!"

Fitzroy shook his head as he then pointed to the command map. "I managed to get the ship out of the instant-kill zone on time, but I'm afraid that there is no way for us to leave the engagement altogether. That isn't the pressing matter, however."

"Not the—Not the pressing matter?" shouted Nolan hysterically as the ship shook violently again as a close shot exploded mere meters away from the ship. "What the _bloody hell_ is _more_ pressing than our survival?"

"Informing the Imperial Capital that this fleet is on its way," Fitzroy answered without skipping a beat. Turning around, he ordered the communications tech to use the remaining shield power to increase the power of the communications device.

Nolan's eyes bulged furiously. "Commander, you are ordered to cease this immediately!"

Fitzroy ignored his Captain as he leaned over the communications officer. "Sir, most of our men throughout the ship are dead, or dying," he reasoned out loud, his eyes fixed on the communications screen. "We need to use this moment to tell the Marshall of what's coming."

"The _pox_ on the Marshall!" screamed Nolan hysterically, eliciting gasps from the crew. "We need to get out of here!"

"Sir, if we don't warn the Capital, they'll be defenceless!" protested Fitzroy heatedly.

Rather than replying, Nolan did the unthinkable. He unlatched his holster and drew his pistol on Fitzroy. "Sergeant Harding! Take Commander Fitzroy to the brig!" he ordered hysterically.

Fitzroy, for his part, had felt his jaw drop open in flabbergasted surprise at his superior's actions. Still, he could not allow this travesty to keep going. "Sergeant Harding!" he counter-ordered. "Take Captain Nolan off the bridge! He is relieved and charged with treason, and dereliction of duty!"

Nolan's already wide eyes bulged in fury at what he perceived to be his subordinate's insubordination and his teeth gritted as he repeated the order, only to be quickly followed by Fitzroy repeating his own.

For her part, Sergeant Harding was torn between following the Captain's orders, and taking the Commander's side, which she agreed with. In the end, she unlatched her own pistol holster and drew it, but kept it pointed down.

"Sergeant, what are you waiting for?" screamed Nolan. "Take this mutineer off my bridge!"

"Sergeant, you know what must be done. The Empire will not survive unless we send that signal"

As Harding's eyes swivelled between her two superiors, she also heard the shouts of the technicians around her.

"Explosive breaches in sections twenty three and twenty four!"

A moment of silence passed as Harding made up her mind, broken only when Nolan screamed, "SERGEANT!"

"Captain Nolan, please come with us," Harding finally said, her troops right behind her, weapons set to fire.

Nolan's face flushed with rage at the perceived mutiny against him, while Fitzroy smiled gratefully at Harding as the Sergeant led the disgraced captain off the bridge. Turning back to the communications officer, Fitzroy leaned over the man's shoulder and looked at the data streaming over the screen.

"How long?" he asked simply.

"We need one more minute to finish powering up the array," answered the technician honestly as he worked frantically at the keyboard. "The blast in section sixteen damaged the communications array. Nothing we can't get around, but it slowed us down."

Turning to the shield technician, Fitzroy was about to ask a question when the man pre-empted him with a shake of his head.

"Shields won't hold for long, sir. We've got three shots worth of shields before they're completely depleted."

"I thought you said two earlier?" asked Fitzroy.

The crewman nodded. "I did. I managed to get more power to the shields by slightly powering down the weapons systems."

Fitzroy was slightly uneasy about powering down their weapons, but acknowledged that whatever break they could get, they should take. "Good. Keep at it."

Now looking towards the pilot, a serious look on his face, he made a quick decision. "Mister Blake, turn the _Eye_ towards the nearest enemy vessel and accelerate to ramming speed."

Yells of "What?" would have filled the bridge at this point, but Fitzroy had always kept a strict sense of discipline amongst the men, so no shouts of protest came up. Instead, a single, polite "Sir?" came up from one of the radar crewmen.

Turning to his men, his squared chin held high, Fitzroy gave them all a glare worthy of a commander of the Forlorn Hope. "We all know how this mission is going to end, gentlemen," he reminded them sombrely. "If it is to end with our deaths, then we shall strive to take as many of our enemies with us, and so hopefully delay them a bit."

A solemn silence overtook the crew as the klaxons around them blared their screeching noise. All around them, the ship shook from near-hits and shockwaves from explosions. Near the door to the bridge, a panel shot out as several cables snapped from the sheer force of one such explosion, causing short circuits to occur in many a computer.

Throughout the ship, the scene was similar. The _Eye_'s hangar was abandoned as huge holes in the hull sucked out the oxygen of the air at high velocities, taking with it much of the hangar crew. The transports themselves were now useless, as a particularly lucky shot from the Death Eaters had landed in a missile rack that had rolled near the transports due to the decompression.

Throughout the hallways, frenzied crewmen strove to fix the short circuits or put out the fires. Every once in a while, the men and women of a particular compartment had to be evacuated as another breach formed up. Sometimes, they weren't so lucky.

And so, it was a quiet bridge that led the ship to its eventual doom. The target, as Fitzroy had chosen, would be a large, rectangular ship that the _Eye_ had managed to get close to in the midst of the enemy fleet. A preliminary guess, and a quick scan had told him that it was a transport ship—undoubtedly full of enemy troops and supplies.

Granted, the crew knew that there were dozens, maybe even thirty such ships, but if they could take out at least one, then that meant one less worry for the Imperial Capital.

"Mister Klein, status report," ordered Fitzroy.

The communications crewman turned to his superior with a triumphant look. "Communications array fully functioning, sir. Transmitting core data now," he reported as he kept typing at the computer's keyboard.

Fitzroy nodded, pleased. "Excellent. How much time until transmission is complete?" he asked, his mood professional. He'd made his peace, and was determined to see his fate head-on in the manner of a true British officer. Just like Admiral Hawke.

Thoughts of the sandy-haired admiral flooded Fitzroy's mind. Hawke had been one of Fitzroy's heroes. As he'd graduated from the Harrisburg Air Fleet Academy, it had been Hawke who had given the honorary graduation speech. Hawke had pinned the Commander insignia on his uniform. Hawke had been the one to shake his hand in congratulations.

Throughout his career at the Academy, Hawke had been the main topic of most Tactical-centric courses. He was an example, a role model for all up-and-coming Imperial officers. Loyal, resolute, dignified, and intelligent. A fanatic in war, a gentleman in peace.

And then Admiral Hawke had died.

It had been the single most heartbreaking moment in the Academy's history. Hundreds of students, who'd grown up with him as the centre of their hero-worship wept at the news. All flags were lowered to half-mast for months, and every student had a black piece of cloth wrapped around their left arm in mourning.

Bagpipes had blared out Amazing Grace throughout the entire day, classes had been suspended. It had completely baffled the Imperial Capital, as most were under the supposition that the hero worship amongst the military was entirely centred on the Iron Duke. But the truth was, each branch had its own, private heroes. For the Air Fleet Hawke was the one just behind Air Field Marshall Potter.

And so now, Fitzroy stood facing the bridge windows, spine erect, chin up, hands clasped behind his back, in what he saw as the perfect emulation of his hero's defiant last stand.

"Transmission…complete," eventually came the solemn, soft call of the communications technician.

With a sharp nod, Fitzroy turned grave eyes to his crew. "Gentlemen, this is it. It's been an honour serving with you."

Silently, as one, the crew of the bridge saluted their commander as the _Eye_ shook violently from direct blasts.

All throughout the hull, the ship was torn apart by shot after shot. Shrapnel flew all around the air, sometimes disintegrating as it became enveloped by another shot. Slowly, then surely, the _Eye_ began to fall as its two remaining turbines failed. Though they would never know it, being that the bridge was destroyed by a random shot from one of the attacking vessels, the _Eye_ never managed to ram its intended target, nor did its ME core explode. In the end, all their sacrifice was worth was a frantic message that the Imperial Capital received minutes after their demise.

* * *

In the attacking fleet, watching the destruction of the _Eye_, a young man, of silky black hair, combed back into a regal look, his squared jaw set and aristocratic nose pointed up, smiled in satisfaction as the Imperial scouting vessel fell towards the sea below in pieces.

He had managed to keep the blasted thing from taking out a good deal of his transports, which he counted as a win, considering his previous failure at Salt Lake City. Then again, he had no idea that the blasted admiral would go on a suicide run. None of his opponents ever did.

The man shifted his shoulders slightly, causing his purple cape to ripple slightly. He remembered quite vividly the humiliation he'd suffered afterwards, being berated by the conservative faction of the Death Eaters for his failure to defeat the Imperial Air Fleet _and_ Navy _and _Army—a feat no one could ever claim. Just the mere fact that he had orchestrated, _successfully_, the coup had been a miracle. After all, England had _never_ been successfully invaded since the times of William the Conqueror—even Louis VIII of France, the man to get the closest to conquering England, had been beaten back.

But _he_ had done it. He had brought about the end of the British Empire.

Or so he'd thought.

_Never_ had he thought that the Americans would have kept a single heir to the throne alive. When he had, at the Council's orders, told the American collaborators to execute the entire lineage, he had assumed they had been thorough and ruthless about it. As it turned out, however, they had either failed to realize the last one's line (unlikely) or had, in a bout of guilt, decided to leave her alive (less unlikely).

Still, this latest suicide run concerned him. This meant the enemy was more dangerous now than ever. He could deal with rational minds, but once the rational was abandoned for the fanatic, then things got tricky. After all, how do you calculate the actions of an opponent who acts without logic?

Fanning himself slightly with the priceless Chinese war fan that had been recovered amongst the spoils in the Terracotta Army caverns, the man pondered his next move. His previous plan had ensured that the Imperial Army and Air Fleet was stretched throughout the globe—each of them at least a full day's flight away from the Imperial Capital.

His next move had been to find the capital in question. This, he had achieved by triangulating the city's location by means of random attacks along the periphery of certain sectors. Eventually, by calculating response time and fleet speed, he had managed to compute a possible location for the island capital.

Then, he had put into motion his latest plan—that is, to infiltrate the Imperial Defence Network. He had taken one of the marvellous soldiers from the Terracotta Army and had it meld into an average looking wizard with no exceptional power—a nifty attribute that these ancient machines of war had. With his creation, the man had ordered a cover story created for the soldier, including reasons for which no one could remember seeing him and the like. They even fabricated an official school transcript from Durmstrang, comfortable in the knowledge that since all records from that school were gone, there would be no way to counter his claim.

The infiltration, as far as he knew, had been successful. Unfortunately, in order to perfectly preserve the soldier's cover, no communication had been set up between him and the soldier. As such, only a subconscious command guaranteed any success in that particular plan.

With any luck, the Imperial Defence Network would be offline when his cloaked fleet arrived.

With any luck, the job he'd begun five years ago would finally be over in a day's time.

With any luck, the British Empire would die, for good this time.

* * *

Unfortunately for the man, nothing ever goes according to plan in war. For, waiting patiently for the chaos of the battle to begin in Greenland, was a dark presence. A presence so foul, so dark, that he had been called, for years, the Darkest Wizard in history. A presence so evil, that he actually intended to slaughter a child in its infancy in order to secure his own immortality.

A presence so powerful, his very name was feared for years.

In the icy wastelands of Greenland, sitting atop a throne of jagged ice, that man waited.

And then, as he'd planned, the icy doors of his throne room opened, and a single man was let in. With a cold, cunning smile that belied his advanced years, the man greeted his guest with a silky, superior voice.

"Welcome."


	16. Chapter XIII: A Day in the Life

_AN: Right-o. Next chapter! The moment till the battle begins approaches!_

* * *

_Imperial Palace Gardens, Harrisburg_

"Parry!"

_CLINK_

"Jab!"

_CLINK_

"Parry! No! No! _Parry_, Your Majesty! _PARRY!_"

Elizabeth huffed in indignation as she missed her opening yet again, causing her instructor to grumble in annoyance while her attendants giggled at the man's irritation.

"Your Majesty, please try to focus," begged her fencing instructor. The poor man had been trying to teach the young Queen this particular move for the last hour and a half, with little success.

Arguably, though, the Queen _could_ have paid a bit more attention, as she had requested the lessons as a result of her not-so-pleasant run-in with her ex-captors in Panama City. Determined never again to find herself entirely defenceless, the young Queen had demanded that tutors be found to teach her basic self-defence. Considering most of the actual ruling of the Empire fell onto Parliament, as it had always been, it was no great problem to find the appropriate time slots in her schedule—especially since the civil wars in Europe had heated up to the point where all her visits there had been cancelled.

Elizabeth nonetheless felt herself growing frustrated with her lessons. As she rubbed her pale, sore arm, she kept mentally belittling herself for failing so much. First, there was the matter of the Order. She knew that by giving them clemency, she had pushed away the Duke of Halifax and his supporters. To add insult to injury, it seemed that her approval in ratifying Ronald Weasley's position as strategist had ended in disaster—costing the Imperial Army a full legion of its best men.

The young Queen had been devastated when the Duke of Halifax, in a twisted turn of events, read out loud the fates of the men she'd approved of sending into a known death trap on the word of a former traitor.

Then, to make matters worse, she had acted impulsively on the issue of O'Connor and McDonald. Before even thinking on it seriously, she had allowed her childish rage at being snubbed by two supposedly loyal officers dictate her decision—something that had irritated Admiral Staples to no end once he'd received his orders to move against the two pirates.

And even then, the problems kept coming. Apparently, the fact that she was the last in a line dating 1000 years of unbroken rule hadn't escaped the notice of her advisors, or of the general public at large. As a result, whenever she wasn't approving something, or practicing like she was now, she was being tormented, in her own audience room to boot, on the issue of marriage. Never mind that it was ridiculous to her that a teenager should marry, but she could see where they were coming from. With the rest of her family wiped out, her death would effectively end the British monarchy, which she'd sworn to defend. That left her in a precarious position.

Sure, she'd heard (and been reminded of, constantly) that the Duke of Halifax and his wife had been happily married from the age of 16 and 15, respectively. But, in her opinion, that had been a fluke—very few people ever found true love at that age. The Duke and Duchess had merely been extremely lucky.

Sighing, Elizabeth looked out towards the horizon, where the sun was setting, a red aura surrounding it. A soft breeze began to blow at that moment, and the young Queen brought a hand up to hold some stray locks of her red hair from billowing into her face.

Despite the protests she made, despite the reluctant feelings she had towards marriage, she couldn't help but feel some small amount of envy for the marriage the Duke and Duchess of Halifax had. They were so happy together that it made Elizabeth wonder when she would find her own equivalent to Harry.

"Your Majesty?" came the inquiring voice of her teacher.

Elizabeth sighed once more, resigning herself to her duty as Queen. She could not fantasize of prince charming—after all, she had a people to look after; an empire to safeguard. And, as she had sworn in her oath, so she would do.

That was, after all, her duty.

* * *

"Mommy, where's daddy?"

Ginny sighed as her precious daughter asked the all-too familiar question. It wasn't the first time, after all. During the first five years of Sarah's life, they had been living in Panama City as exiles, while her father was presumed dead. Then, upon meeting him, she only had several hours a day to see him before work called him back to the office. It had also been the subject of at least two heated arguments between Ginny and Harry.

"Daddy's at work, sweetie," replied Ginny with a comforting smile as she put down her quill and turned to her daughter, arms extended in invitation.

Nodding shyly, Sarah walked to her mother and allowed herself to be hefted onto her mother's lap, where Ginny gave her a reassuring hug. "He'll be back soon," she promised her daughter.

Again, a shy nod was all the answer Ginny received. Sighing for what would probably not be the last time, Ginny wondered to herself just how long that excuse would last. Every time Harry stepped on one of his ships, after all, he was potentially doing so for the last time. There were times when Ginny _really_ wished he would simply delegate the missions to the many capable officers he had under his command. She knew, for a fact, that Admiral Wolf was capable enough to oversee any plans Harry wished to put into motion. And, if he needed ground troops, Colonels Sharpe and Wolfe were both competent and proven. If he really needed someone in his inner circle, he had Seamus, Ernie, and Susan.

But for some reason, that husband of hers was adamant that he should always be at the front lines, regardless of the personal sacrifices he made.

It was at such times that Ginny absently wondered what would happen to her dear husband once the war was over. Harry was so obviously a soldier it was painful. When the war ended, what would he do? He would be a soldier without a war, and would probably not be able to easily adapt back into a lifestyle of peace.

For her part, Ginny was glad that her missions were far and few in between. In a way, she was a last resort that the Imperials used only if it was absolutely necessary. As such, she had plenty of time to re-adapt to the relative peace of Imperial society. She always made time for her daughter, and for family and friends. In fact, barely an hour ago, she had been entertaining her brother Bill and the twins, who'd come over to see how she was doing when they heard that Harry was leaving again. She'd assured them that she was fine.

The truth, however, could not be farther. In truth, Ginny always felt horrible when Harry left. But it wasn't anger, or rage, but rather disappointment, and perhaps even a tiny sliver of guilt. She couldn't help it, but there were times when she wondered if perhaps the reason he always left for battle was because he no longer wished to remain in her company. Perhaps he found her unattractive now—all passion for her gone.

It was a ridiculous concept, but she thought it nonetheless, unaware that men around the capital and the rest of the Imperial territories would have killed to spend a single night with her. It was even more ridiculous due to the fact that Harry himself was madly in love with her, but couldn't keep his own demons from controlling his mind.

"Mommy?"

Ginny snapped out of her thoughts as she turned concerned brown eyes towards her daughter's own emerald orbs. "Yes, sweetie?"

"Does daddy not love us anymore?" asked the redheaded child, eliciting a look of utter horror from her mother.

"Of course he does, sweetie!" reassured Ginny with a tight hug, which the five-year old returned just as fiercely. Even through her dress, Ginny could feel some of it get wet as Sarah's tears were absorbed by the silk.

"Then why doesn't he stay?" demanded the small redhead.

Ginny stroked her daughter's fiery red hair softly and comfortingly. "Oh, sweetie…daddy's just gone to keep the bad men away," she told her daughter. "He'll be back soon. You'll see."

Ginny tightened her hold on her daughter unconsciously as she said those last words. She dared not believe otherwise, but she couldn't deny fearing that, perhaps, Harry _wouldn't_ come back to them. That, like five years ago, he would disappear in some unknown circumstance.

Or perhaps even worse, that he'd leave both of them for someone like Allison. Ginny gave a small gasp of shock as she felt the moisture roll down her cheeks. Without knowing it, she had begun to cry, albeit silently—finally releasing the pain that she'd held within her at Harry's past indiscretions. She'd pushed them down in favour of loving him then and there—willingly deciding that the past wasn't worth her attention, but she couldn't deny the hurt she'd always carried in her heart over his infidelity.

She could understand it, of course, but it still hurt, nonetheless.

"You'll see," she repeatedly softly, her tears still slowly making their way down her pale, porcelain-like cheeks.

* * *

"Last call!" shouted the bartender as he wiped a dirty glass with a rag that looked like it had lost in a contest against nature.

Several of the pub's patrons looked outside and, sure enough, they saw it was pitch black, and church bells in the distance announced the lateness of the hour. Though mostly deserted, still a few patrons were left by now—usually drunks and people who needed to drown their sorrows in alcohol.

Sitting at the counter was one such person—Susan Bones.

Though officially on duty, the redheaded Major of Her Majesty's Third Imperial Legion, 2nd Battalion, was anything but fit for service at the moment.

Her usually lustrous red hair looked like it hadn't seen the company of a brush in days, and heavy bags were forming under her eyes. Her rosy cheeks were tear stained, and her uniform looked like it had been lived in for the past week, which wasn't that far from the truth.

Ever since news had arrived of the Third Legion's decimation, Susan had taken to pubs like flies take to decay. Though Seamus and Ernie had come to see her, as well as Ginny on several occasions, Susan had all but shut her friends from her life. She knew they were concerned for her, but she didn't care. All she cared about was making the pain go away.

The pain of having one's heart torn out. The pain of losing the person you loved.

Even now as she attempted to practically commit suicide by inebriation, Susan could still hear the bagpipes playing at Neville's _in absentia_ funeral. The pipes and drums had blared out Amazing Grace with all the sadness they could. Hundreds, if not at least a thousand, people had shown up—mostly former RNA soldiers, or friends he'd made aboard the _Retaliation_ on its maiden voyage, or even local townsfolk. All had attended.

For Neville had, according to the preacher, given his life in the finest tradition of the service—something she had desperately wanted to challenge, considering no one had ever found his body, but instead had chosen to remain silent and let the others grieve as well.

Though no one, _no one_ was grieving more than her. At least, that was her reasoning.

"One more," she ordered the bartender, who was looking quite nervous now. After all, he was torn between giving in and serving the Imperial officer and doing his law-bound duty to stop her from drinking anymore. She already looked like hell, after all.

"Sorry, lass, but I think ye'v had enough," apologized the bartender, having made up his mind to try and curb the redhead's dangerous drinking.

Susan gave a low, guttural growl that resonated very clearly to the bartender. "I said, one more!" she repeated angrily. "Don't you know who I am?"

The bartender shrugged. "Sorry, lass, but the law's the law. Besides, aren't you supposed to be back in the barracks by now?" he asked. "Most of yer kind's out of here by now."

Susan snorted. "Not my fault the wankers can't drink," she mumbled as she fingered her current mug.

The bartender sighed and put down the glass he'd been cleaning for the better part of the night. He then leaned forward towards Susan and gave her a meaningful stare. "Alright, lass, what's yer woes?" he asked bluntly.

Susan looked up in surprise at the man's bluntness, which the bartender shrugged off casually. "Yer not the first drunk I've had who needed a shoulder to cry on. Back'n Ireland, I had a pub in Dublin. Had yer type around _all_ the time, 'specially during the Troubles. So, what's eatin' at yer heart, lassie?"

Susan looked at the man in open, unblemished shock for a moment before, unthinkingly, she gave in and poured out her heart to this stranger.

"Neville got killed," she mumbled out. For his part, the bartender merely nodded knowingly.

"Africa?" he asked. Susan shook her head. "Canada, then," a nod. "Figured. Both of them's hot spots leave widows like ye would'na believe. This Neville lad, he your husband?"

Susan hiccupped as she shook her head. "Boyfriend…" she corrected softly.

The bartender nodded. "How long?"

"Six years."

The bartender whistled appreciatively. "Impressive, lass. And ye've not been officiated for, yet? That's some commitment you two have there."

"Had," Susan corrected bitterly.

"Have," the bartender repeated firmly. As Susan's eyes shot up angrily, the bartender met her with an equally stubborn look. "Yer heart broken 'cause ye think ye'v lost everything. Am I right?" a reluctant nod. "Well, ye'r wrong. Those six years, they were good, weren't they?"

"Yes, but…"

"No buts, missy!" the bartender cut in. "Those six years were good, and so ye should honour them by thinkin' on the good times, not the bad'uns. Now listen here, lass, I've lived long enough to have been through the Troubles, seen the United Kingdom destroyed, and watched as them murderin' bastards burned down meh country. But still, when I think o' Ireland, I don't think on those times. Instead, I think back on the laughs and good times I had at my little pub in Dublin."

"But…Neville…" she tried again, this time her hiccupping getting worse. To make matters worse, she felt her eyes tearing up, which she angrily tried to resolve by wiping at them aggressively with her sleeves. She was stopped, however, by the bartender's firm grip on her arms.

"None o' that, now!" he barked harshly. "Crying's not for the weak, y'know," he told her bluntly. "It's what makes us different from machines, and them murderin' bastards that took away me country and yer Neville," he reminded her.

"But…"

"Now listen to me, lass," growled the bartender as he leaned forward towards her, so that his face was mere inches away from hers. The man's aged, grey eyes held her own brown eyes firm as his greyed beard bristled. "Ye'r an officer o' the Queen's army. Ye've seen friends and foes alike get killed. This happens. This is war. If yer Neville was an officer too, then I've nary a doubt that he faced his death like a true soldier. So why, then, are ye tryin' to dishonour his mem'ry?" he asked softly.

Susan felt herself reeling back at the man's words. How _dared_ he say that? Couldn't he see how much Neville's death was tearing up her?

"How _dare y_—" She started, before a glare from the bartender stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Ye know I'm right," he stated simply. "Yer Neville died a soldier. The best thing ye can do about it is find 'is killer and then put 'im through hell—_not_ get drunk and try ter commit suicide by drink!" he scolded her. "There's enough spells and bullets in the world to help ye go to yer Neville's side, so why not take as many of those murderin' bastards with ye when one of them finally catch up to ye?"

Susan stared at the bartender in total shock. She hadn't thought of that. Hadn't even considered that option. All she could think, for days now, was simply how she wanted her life to end, so she could see Neville. But here was another option. An option that would let her fulfil her oath to the Crown, satisfy her need for vengeance, _and_ would ultimately end with her death. All in all, a perfect situation for her.

Still, she couldn't help but feel her eyes tearing up as she finally found her answer. Shutting her eyes fiercely, she looked down as the tears nonetheless made their way down her pale cheeks, teeth gritted in impotent rage and sadness.

"N-Neville…" she whispered painfully between her teeth. She held her hands to her eyes now as she leaned onto the counter, her thin body wracked by the occasional sob. Standing behind the counter, the bartender could only lay a comforting hand on the redhead's shoulder as she finally allowed herself to cry her soul out.

* * *

Sitting in his office, James Potter looked at the requisition papers in front of him with some distaste. It was, frankly, one of the more dreary parts of his current job—that is, being a senior staff member of the War Department. Due to his well-known, effective tenure in managing the Falklands during the pre-War period, the higher-ups had decided to put him in charge of supplies. After all, it was only due to James and Lily that the islands had been well-prepared enough to withstand a full Death Eater siege, and then beaten their enemy back.

Still, that didn't mean he liked the paperwork. Sighing, the dark-haired man took out his pen and signed the order form. With that, he had ratified the order to acquire enough metal to build at least seven more Assault Ships. James gave this little thought, however. Despite the Empire's already awesome air power, the Imperial war machine kept spouting new Assault Ships nearly every month.

It was one of the miracles of hybridizing magic and technology. With the process of creating the Assault Ships completely documented and perfected, Gifted and goblins had worked together with Ungifted engineers to hybridize the machine with magical energy, thus cutting back on energy costs, and leaving the machines to work continuously and freely. Furthermore, goblins came every week and cast a _Reparo_ charm on all the machinery in order to keep it top notch. As a result, construction time for Assault Ships had gone from a full year to about three months.

The problem, however, was more along the lines of finding the necessary amount of crew. For, as many Assault ships as they had, there simply wasn't the amount of able-bodied volunteers necessary to crew all of them. Thus, the Empire had turned towards magical creatures, despite the protests of some of the Gifted.

The first they turned to were Werewolves, for whom many of the Assault Ships were now equipped with full moon containment rooms. In addition, a steady supply of Wolfsbane was provided for them in order to make the transformation easier. Still, there wasn't enough to crew all the new Assault Ships, so the Empire turned to the goblins now.

The goblins were an interesting race, to say the least. While the Empire and the goblins had mutually aided each other in the past, the goblin race had all but disappeared during and after the coup. It wasn't that they were wiped out, but rather went into hiding—taking most of the Death Eater treasure with them, while transferring everyone else's money to distant, non-combatant branches (such as in China or the Philippines).

Only a year ago, however, the goblins had approached the Empire by way of one of their Assault Ships, the _HMIS Revenge_, which had been on patrol in the Pacific when the goblin transmission came through. A meeting had been quickly set up, and an agreement struck. The goblins, having been practically chased out of Britain, wanted revenge on the Death Eaters, and agreed to help the Empire for a share of the overall war earnings, and the right to be represented in the Imperial Parliament. When questioned on this, the goblin representative had merely stated that, "Britain was our home, too. Do we not deserve a voice in its government, then?" The Bill of Rights was then suitably amended to extend all rights of citizenship to goblins as well.

After the agreement had been struck, the goblins had come through in their promise to help the Empire. Smaller, fully goblin-manned Assault Ships were now often seen accompanying their larger, human-manned counterparts. In the fleet Harry led, there were at least five of them: the _Krog_, _Ragnok_, _Artouk_, _Olgrof_, and _Huardin_. From what James could figure out, all goblin ships were named after a famous goblin hero. The only one he was familiar with, however, was Ragnok, the last director of the Gringotts branch in London, who had, reports stated, led a rearguard so valiantly that he'd successfully bought his staff to fully evacuate and empty the vast bank. Unfortunately, he was ultimately killed while retreating.

James turned his head towards the window behind him as he heard the tell-tale sound of an Assault Ship's turbines accelerating to lift-off speed. From his office, James had a perfect view of the main airfield, where most Assault Ships re-supplied whenever the docks were crowded with merchant vessels.

James couldn't help but feel nostalgic, now. Planes had become a thing of the past, practically. While one could argue that airships were now the new breakthrough in aviation, James was no fool. The Airship was mainly an ocean-going ship that had several turbines strapped to its bottom to keep it afloat in the air. The only planes still in use, in fact, were fighter planes, which were uniquely under the management of the Imperial Air Fleet. Any travel between the archipelago and the rest of the world was accomplished only through Imperial-owned shuttles (much like the one that had transported the Queen on her world tour), or sea ships.

He could even remember the first time he'd ever ridden on a plane. Lily and he were 18, fresh out of Hogwarts, and she'd wanted to go travelling. When he'd suggested flooing, Apparation, or portkeys, she's insisted on going on a plane, much to his initial consternation. Once he'd gotten over his initial fear at being locked in a floating metallic death trap, he began to see why she'd insisted on a plane ride.

It had been breathtaking.

Beyond actually flying on brooms, flying on a plane was the next best thing. He was comfortable, there were interesting movies (which, Lily had to explain to him, were in fact _not_ small people being trapped in plastic cubes), and the view outside the window was spectacular. After all, broom flying only took you as high as the oxygen and temperature allowed your body to. In a plane, James saw a whole new horizon open up. He could go higher, and at faster speeds than any broom.

But now, planes were far and few between. While the commercial vehicles still existed, it was widely accepted that flying these huge machines in the midst of an international war was nothing short of suicidal. As such, most, if not all, were grounded on a permanent basis.

"James?"

James looked up from his work to see his beautiful darling wife at the door, smiling lovingly at him. She was wearing a nice dress today—green, with gold lacing. It certainly accentuated her eyes and hair, he had to admit—his two favourite features on her.

"Hey Lils," he greeted her with a huge grin. He swiftly got to his feet and circled his desk towards his wife, whose hands he grabbed lovingly as he bowed down and placed a strong kiss on her rosy lips. When the sweet kiss was broken, Lily was looking up at her husband with sparkling eyes and an amused smile.

"That bored, were you?" she asked mischievously. James laughed heartily—she knew him too well.

"You have no idea," he told her sincerely. "Honestly, it's like the entire War Department feels the need to get my approval to use even the bloody _loo_."

Lily laughed at that, making James' heart skip a beat. Even now, well into their marriage, Lily's laughter was still cause for him to feel like the seventeen-year old nervous wreck he'd been when trying to prepare for their first, actual date. It was, to James' mind, the one reason he knew, beyond a doubt, that he was still head-over-heels in love with his wife.

"S…So what are you doing here, Lils?" asked James, mentally cursing himself for stuttering like a crushing teen. Lily smiled widely at it, however, looked at him knowingly.

"I was dropping off Sarah back at Harry and Ginny's," she told him. "She had another assignment today, and Harry's off to fight O'Connor's merry little band of pirates," she reminded him.

James looked at Lily oddly. "It's the twelfth already?" he asked. "I thought Ginny's assignment was tomorrow!"

Lily giggled at her husband's absentmindedness. It was so endearing. "Aye, it was today."

James groaned. At Lily's concerned look, James gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry, love. Looks like I'll have to stay in a bit late tonight, then," he apologized. At her outraged look, he quickly explained. "I have to send out the work teams to provide the monthly maintenance to the Defence Grid! You know I'm not allowed to leave the office until that's been taken care of!"

Lily glared at her husband, but James knew that there was no real malice behind it—just disappointment. From her dress, he could tell she'd been planning something special for tonight, and part of him _really_ wanted to ditch work and find out just how special, but duty called.

And James was nothing if not a man of duty.

Lily, of course, knew this, but decided to make him squirm a bit—maybe even make him think he'd be sleeping on the couch for this. Eventually, however, she just sighed in reluctant acceptance and nodded, pulling on his suit towards her so that her head rested on his well-toned chest. James absently curled his arms around her, bringing her more into contact with him.

"I'm sorry, love," he apologized once again.

"I know," she replied softly.

* * *

The agent in place looked directly to his front as his team was passed through the security scanners at the Defence Grid Headquarters entrance. Here, in this facility, was the heart of the most advanced defence network ever built and thought of by man. From the single building not sixty meters away, over two hundred MAG Cannons were operated, and it was from that building that they were to be taken to each emplacement to keep the cannons working. Or, at least, that's what their job was _supposed_ to be. His, on the other hand, was quite different.

He was to shut down the entire Defence Grid.

Being caught was not a problem, as long as his job was done. He was not a man, nor capable of truly feeling pain—though he could fake the effects well enough. Rather, as long as his mission was complete, then his purpose to exist had faded.

For, lying underneath the human appearance, completely indiscernible from the other humans in his work team, lay one of the Death Eaters' Terracotta soldiers, his programming dictating that the time for his mission to be complete was now.

First, the grid would go down. Then, the fleet would arrive.

And tomorrow, Harrisburg would burn.


	17. Chapter XIV: End's Overture

_AN: Quick update, since it's a short chapter. However, with this, the big battle officially begins!_

_Also, big announcement: I have decided, after long consideration, that Empire's War will officially end the Dark Wars series. Originally, the plan was for a 5th installment, but in the course of writing the 5th, I realized that the course I was taking the plot had strayed way too far from the original, techno-magic setting that I had created for the Dark Wars. As such, all relevant plot elements will be resolved in the chapters to come. If there are any particulars you'd like to know about (such as character developments, events, etc...), please let me know in a review so I that I can answer as best I can._

_Well then, enjoy!_

_Marquis Black  
_

* * *

The day began as usual for John Verre, of the Imperial New Britannia First Warning Division. The sky was blue, a few clouds here and there, and the forecast predicted sun throughout the day. At age 25, John was unmarried, a contented bachelor, and had woken up to find his one-night stand quite asleep. He'd discreetly gone out of her bedroom, made his way back to his own flat, and had there taken a shower, gotten dressed into his black-and-red officer's uniform (he was a Lieutenant—the third highest rank in the division), had a decent breakfast, and was now on his way to the wharf, where a specially-commissioned ferry would take him over to his designated watch tower.

These tall, spindly concrete structures had been made to look out for surprise attacks. With the advent of Technomancy, after all, had arrived the use of magic to cloak ships from radars. That being said, Watchers like Verre were commissioned to look for unusual disturbances in the air. The odds of a surprise attack on New Britannia, however, was slim, considering the well-hidden nature of the archipelago. Beyond the MAG Cannons and the rest of the technological defences, Gifted of every social denomination had also contributed by setting up massive wards along the border, hiding the archipelago from sight. The only way in was through one of the special ferries or an Airship. Even better, no one really knew _where_ the archipelago was, thanks to its many protections, so Verre was never worried when he went to work. In fact, he felt it was the easiest job in the entire archipelago. They were _paying_ him to relax in the sun, practically.

So when Verre reached his post that morning, he greeted his crew of five with a huge, easy grin, and a wink towards the one female of his group, who merely sighed in annoyance at her happy-go-lucky superior.

"Morning ladies, gentlemen, Ted," he added while looking directly at that particular member of his crew. Verre had always looked disappointed at him due to his particularly horrible habit of being, as Verre considered it, the sappiest man he'd had the misfortune of knowing. The man named Ted merely gave a long-suffering look at one of his crewmates, who grinned.

"Morning, Lieutenant," greeted one of the others under his command.

"So, lay it on me, Corporal," said Verre as he walked through the room, a skip in his step. "Anything new today?"

"Nothing, sir. Same as usual. Blue skies, birds every once in a while," reported the addressed man as he looked through his binoculars.

"Had a few big waves at one point, though, sir," put in Ted meekly, only to receive a condescending look from Verre.

"Janet," Verre always gave Ted a hard time this way—by calling him female names. "If I thought waves a few meters out from the coastline was weird, then I'd still be in grade school. As I'm not, however, let's assume that I actually realize that waves _can_ exist out here. In that case, what you've just told me is perhaps the lamest observation I've ever heard. Now, if you see a whale doing a triple back-flip five meters over water, _then_ let me know about it so I can send you off to the rehab centre, because it would be obvious that you've obviously been inhaling too much happy-powder. Am I being clear, Ted?"

"Yes, sir," replied Ted sulkily.

"Good," with that, Verre turned his attention back to relaxing as he took a seat at his desk, enjoying the easy breeze of the open ocean. He even raised his feet onto his desk, much to the frustration of his only female subordinate, who twitched every time he broke protocol. Of course, all it made Verre do was grin in response. He so loved to rile her up.

"So, any interesting news from the Capital, sir?" asked one of his crew—a man called Andrew Johnson, who hailed from Halifax. Tall, brown-haired and well built, he looked like he stepped right out of a recruiting poster.

Verre sighed aloud in a bored fashion. "Nothing much, really," he replied, bored. "The Emperor of Japan is in on an official visit. Beyond that, nothing extraordinary."

Andrew nodded thoughtfully as he casually wrote down observations made by his observation partner, Cally Kline.

"Storm's coming," the brunette announced casually as she pointed her binoculars towards the horizon. "Bearing North, North-East," she added. "Looks like a rough one."

"Lower the storm-proof windows?" asked another of the team. Verre shook his head.

"We're not in danger just yet. No need to take away this nice breeze," he told his team.

"But sir, protocol—" protested Cally as she turned towards him, binoculars now pointed down.

"—state that safety windows are to be lowered only when the immediate circumstances demand it. I know, corporal," Verre told her, interrupting her, mid-protest. "However, immediate circumstances do not state that there is a pressing need to lower the glasses, and for all we know, it's entirely possible that the storm will veer off course."

Cally grudgingly agreed verbally, though she was clearly not convinced that this would be the case. Sure, she was only nineteen, but she'd been working in the Division for a full year now, and her observations were hardly ever incorrect. Of course, due to age, and (she suspected) her sex, she was constantly passed over for promotion. If she hadn't, then she was sure that she would command one of the Division teams herself.

The next hour or so, she believed, would prove her to be, once again, correct in her assessment on the storm. Fuming silently at the unfairness of her situation, the blue-eyed blonde turned to her work again, holding her binoculars high as she ignored the oncoming storm and kept a steady lookout.

Of course, it wasn't like she expected anything extraordinary to happen. Much like Verre, she held unwavering confidence in the archipelago's many defensive systems and wards. As far as she was concerned, there was absolutely _no_ _way_ that _anything_ could find the well-hidden archipelago.

So the team leisurely, for the most part, passed away the afternoon with the occasional chit-chat, and the odd actual report. The only high point of their day, however, came when the Emperor of Japan stopped by on a surprise visit, to see how the British defence system worked for possible adaptation to the Japanese Isles. It had been very nerve wracking for Verre specifically, as he'd only received word of the oncoming delegation minutes before it happened. As such, he'd had the entire crew work like maniacs to tidy up the place, which looked like a bachelor pad on a good day.

The visit itself was pleasant enough, however. The Emperor was much more intimidating than any of the team had imagined, what with a stunning resemblance to most portrayals of Oda Nobunaga, the renowned Demon King of old, but he had nonetheless been extremely courteous, if a bit silent for a man of his rank.

The Emperor had merely asked a few questions regarding their daily operations, and had seemed a bit disappointed at the seemingly lack of complexity, which Verre was quick to explain was a result of years of uninterrupted secrecy. The actual alert-status operations were, Verre explained, far more complex and took far more precision work. He was forced to admit, however, that none on his team had any hands-on experience in these procedures, and Verre himself had only theoretical knowledge of them, due to his officer training. It had been embarrassing to admit, but a lack of reaction from the Emperor had left Verre with a sense that perhaps he had not totally bungled.

"Think we passed?" asked Andrew after the delegation left; most of his companions were sighing in relief at the departure of the delegation. Only a shrug from his superior answered him.

"It was touch-and-go for a while there," noted Cally as she looked towards the horizon, binoculars up. "Especially when they asked about the emergency procedures."

"S'not our fault," protested Ted, mumbling. "Only reason to activate them is to be attacked, after all. Who on Earth could ever find Harrisburg?"

For once Verre agreed with his meek subordinate as he watched towards the horizon, hands clasped behind his back. Who on Earth _could_ find Harrisburg? With all its defences, there was absolutely no feasible way for anyone to find the hidden archipelago.

Little did he know how wrong he was.

"CONTACT!"

Cally's call struck them all so suddenly that it took them a few seconds to react appropriately.

"What?"

"Where?" demanded Andrew as Verre stood there, dumbstruck. Cally quickly obeyed and pointed out with two fingers towards the storm she'd pointed out earlier.

"The storm?" asked Ted, sceptically as she joined the two by the railing. He too grabbed his binoculars and looked in that direction.

"Not the storm, you idiot!" rebuked Cally as she handed her binoculars to Andrew, who lifted them up to his eyes. "Hidden in the clouds. One degree west of the clouds. There, slightly protruding underneath the cloud cover!"

A moment of silence ensued as Andrew and Ted adjusted their binoculars towards where Cally had mentioned.

"Well?" asked Cally after a minute of silence had passed, a bit impatiently.

"Contact, alright," confirmed Andrew shakily as he lowered the binoculars. Looking over to Ted, he noticed his comrade was pale-faced and trembling violently.

"A-Agreed," added Ted as he took a step back, letting the enormity of the moment hit him.

Turning towards Verre, the three crewmembers looked at him for direction. Upon seeing him still rooted to the ground, struck with horror and shock, Andrew pressed the issue by grabbing him and shaking him slightly.

"Sir, we need orders! Do we attempt communication and notify Headquarters?" he asked. "What does the emergency procedure say?"

Cally, impatient already and terrified by the arrival of an unknown contact, took matters into her own hands then by taking two steps forward and slapping Verre across the face.

Reeling from the slap, Verre stumbled out of Andrew's grip and looked at Cally with wide, outraged eyes.

"Snap out of it!" snapped Cally. "There's an unknown contact out there, we don't know what to do, and you're the commanding officer here, damnit!" she rebuked him.

Verre glared at Cally for a moment, but then realized that both Ted and Andrew were looking at him similarly for guidance. His two remaining crew members, both of them actually kids doing an internship, had merely frozen up at the news of a potential contact and were obviously of no use.

Cursing himself for his failure to act immediately, possibly wasting valuable minutes in preparing the New Britannia defences, Verre sprung into action. Pointing two fingers at Ted, Verre gave his first orders.

"Contact Headquarters! Notify unknown enemy presence on the North-East horizon, bearing straight for New Britannia!" he snapped out the order quickly. Pointing now to Andrew and Cally as Ted went to work on the communication console, Verre continued. "You two, map out the direction vector of the incoming unknowns and give me detailed reports on every mile they move!"

Smiling, Cally snapped a salute, followed by Andrew, and headed straight for work.

"Move it, people!" ordered Verre. "Our people back home are counting on us!"

As his team proceeded to do their jobs in a frenzy, with Ted snapping at the two interns to help him out, showing a previously unknown side to him, Verre walked towards the railing calmly, hands clasped behind his back as the gentle breeze now picked up.

"We can't make contact with Headquarters!" called out Ted before launching a stream of curses as he tried to make the console work. "Something's jamming our signals!"

"They've spotted us," Verre whispered, his eyes calmly tracking the storm on the horizon.

"How do you know?" asked Cally nervously.

Verre never turned to her, but allowed a knowing smile to grace his handsome feature. He slowly raised his eyes towards the rounded ceiling above, and indeed confirmed his suspicions.

Five werewolves, snarling at him as they hung onto the rounded dome.

"Lads," Verre said stoically as the werewolves approached. Behind him, he heard Ted curse wildly as two more swung into the observation post. The two interns were screaming in terror.

"It's been a pleasure."

Drawing his sword quick as lightning, Verre gave a defiant cry as he swung upwards at one of the werewolves, just as the two behind him lunged at his crew.

Exactly two minutes later, it was all over.

Laying in a pool of his own blood, propped up against the wall, eyes wide, mouth slightly open with a line of blood going down his chin, John Verre's life was extinguished, his heart ripped out, as his crew was slowly killed before his lifeless eyes.

At exactly 5:02 PM that day, every observation post on the New Britannia perimeter was attacked and taken over.

Ten minutes later, the first shots were fired at the New Britannia shields.

And, exactly thirty minutes after that, the first ships of the Death Eater fleet crossed the broken wards into New Britannia airspace.

The Battle of Harrisburg had just begun.


	18. Chapter XV: The Game Behind The Veil

The alarm first resonated throughout the Imperial Palace, and from there spread throughout the capital of the British Empire. At first, the citizens were shocked as the unfamiliar sirens resonated throughout the streets in thus-unknown bullhorns. At first, everyone thought the sirens were merely a drill.

At first, everyone denied what they knew, deep in their hearts, to be true.

They were under attack.

In a matter of seconds, panic overcame shock. Where men, women, and children stood rooted to the ground a moment ago, they now ran for their homes, shouting in panic. Soon, the bells of the Cathedral began resonating as well, adding to the cacophony of the chaos. All throughout the streets, men dragged their families to safehouses and anti-bombardment bunkers which had been built at the founding of the city. Unfortunately, as time had passed without attack, many of these had fallen into disuse, and their building had ceased after the creation of the fifth isle. Therefore, three isles were completely without shelters, leaving well over 200,000 men, women, and children without a place to seek refuge in.

Fear soon overtook these regions, and mass rioting began to break out as the five other islands began to refuse access to these three remaining isles, due to capacity excess. Troops were deployed from every garrison to contain the situation, but as desperation began to set in, the infighting became more punctuated. Even soldiers were dragged into the rioting as they tried to break the desperate inhabitants of Isles 6-8 from storming the bridges, which the neighbouring isles had threatened to destroy if they didn't stop the violence.

Violence inevitably led to fires as the desperate mobs began to throw molotovs at both troops and buildings. Unwilling to fire upon the crowds, however, the troops did not retaliate with their weapons, but rather attempted to capture as many as possible. Fanned by the winds, however, the fires began to spread, and soon the fire departments of all three isles were hard at work to put out the raging infernos.

Watching from her room was a disappointed queen, who watched silently as her own people fought each other due to a lack of foresight and overconfidence. The same overconfidence that had, in the end, killed her adoptive parents.

Elizabeth sighed as she watched the towering plumes of black smoke rise above the raging infernos. She could do nothing, and she hated that. The best she could do is attempt to assuage the fears of the populace, but how could she, considering she too was scared witless? The news of the impending invasion had taken them all by surprise, and without Harry or his fleets to protect them, all that the New Britannia Defence Forces had to defend them were the MAG cannons.

And even they had failed them.

The news had struck her and her court into total shock. The messenger had arrived, panicked and worn out, claiming that the MAG cannons had been sabotaged. The central operating system had been tampered with, and every cannon had immediately shut down rather than activate with the breaching of the shields. It had, and still baffled their technicians, who were flabbergasted at how such an event could occur. The best theory any of them had in respect to what had happened had been given by James Potter, Harry's father—yet another backhanded blow to her as the Potter family came through once more.

Elizabeth sighed as she remembered _that_ particular court session. It had started with the sudden arrival of a harried messenger from the Defence Headquarters…

* * *

"_The MAG Cannons are down!"_

_The entire court had stilled at these words. Elizabeth herself had risen from the throne in shock as the civilian-dressed messenger ran down the middle of her courtroom and hurriedly fell to his knees before her._

"_What?" she'd asked dumbly._

"_The MAG Cannons, Your Majesty!" reiterated the messenger. "The entire Defence Mainframe has been shut down!"_

"_Who is responsible for this?" asked one of her courtiers, a newly created Earl._

"_We have not yet ascertained this," replied the messenger immediately. "Our entire efforts are being coordinated towards repairing the mainframe before the Death Eaters arrive."_

"_Is there no theory as to whom or what may be responsible for this failure?" asked Elizabeth, trying to figure out how such a catastrophic event could have happened now, at the worst of times. "Any theories at all?"_

_As the messenger shook his head, the court's attention was drawn towards the front doors, which had been violently thrown open. Into the court walked James Potter, followed by two armed Royal Guards, who seemed to be carrying an unconscious man. When James was within jumping distance to the throne, he elegantly got on one knee and lowered his head in submission._

"_Rise, Lord Potter," Elizabeth said distractedly, her eyes on the man the two guards were carrying. "What is the meaning of this?"_

"_The saboteur, Your Majesty," explained James as he stood, eliciting horrified gasps from the crowd. "After going through the security feeds and launching a full-scale manhunt, we discovered his treachery and captured him but a few minutes ago."_

"_Where was he?" asked Dumbledore, who was standing by the throne, eyeing the man just as curiously._

"_We found him in an abandoned warehouse at the docks. Our scans indicate that he is one of the Death Eaters' soldier constructs," replied James evenly. Unlike his son, James was less hostile towards the former Headmaster, and managed to keep his temper more in check._

"_A terracotta soldier?" asked Elizabeth in wonder as her court erupted into amazed whispering. "Of the Chinese tombs?"_

_James nodded. "The very same. He tried to commit suicide when we found him—in order to safeguard his secret, no doubt—but my men were quicker."_

_Elizabeth couldn't help but feel both pride and a pang of guilt at James' words. On one hand, she knew that the Potters were still steadfastly loyal to the Throne, but on the other, she couldn't help but notice his choice in words—"my men," he had said, not "our men," or "your men." It was a testament to their loyalty, and disappointment as well, no doubt, to the Throne that James had mobilized his private resources to capture the traitor. Still, she couldn't help but notice that every time the Potters came through, she felt a little worse at her past choices. _

_She knew that she had already alienated them by consenting to remove Harry from overall command of the military, as well as granting clemency to the Order, but what had probably driven them the furthest away was her appointment of Dumbledore as one of her inner council, as opposed to Matthew Potter, whom the Potters had favoured, since Harry couldn't be around all the time. Unfortunately, she had decided that Dumbledore, despite their misgivings about the man, had seen and gone through the most experiences, and could therefore provide a wealth of knowledge that Matthew couldn't. The oldest of the Potter children had taken the choice graciously—a true testament to his clan, but the Potters' disapproval of the choice had been palpable at the next court session._

_Still, as James stood there, he seemed neither disapproving, nor angry—rather, he looked like the perfect image of serenity, despite the impending invasion. He was truly a contrasting image against her court, who seemed in total uproar. Only Dumbledore seemed similarly calm._

_Looking towards Dumbledore, Elizabeth gave him a pleading look, and the older wizard obliged by casting a blanket silencing spell on the uproarious court, sparing only himself, Elizabeth, and James._

"_Lord Potter, what do you think is to be done?" asked Dumbledore in the silence. Of course, most of the silenced court was glaring at him._

"_I've already ordered Defence Headquarters to start finding a solution to the problem," reported James. "At best, we'll have this problem figured out and the cannons will be back online."_

"_And at worst?" asked Elizabeth, dreading the answer._

_James took a deep breath before answering her. "At worst, we're left defenceless."_

"_What about ships? How many do we have left?" asked Dumbledore as he took off the silencing spell from Sulu, who'd been waiting patiently.._

"_We have only Navy vessels, Your Majesty, and of those, only twenty," reported the dark-skinned commander. "There are exactly four prototype Assault Ships as well, but these are so far from active duty that they're only ever crewed by a skeleton crew."_

"_Twenty and four…" repeated Elizabeth, shocked numb. "Twenty four vessels stand between the greatest Death Eater armada ever seen and Harrisburg…"_

_Just then, James took a knee, surprising the young queen. "Please, Your Majesty, have faith," he told her, hands tightened into a combined fist in front of him. "My son will come back. He __will__ beat back our foes."_

"_L-Lord Potter, I wasn—why would you think I would think that?" asked Elizabeth, somewhat stunned that the Potter patriarch had read her so well. In truth, she __had__ felt some uncertainty._

"_I've had to deflect criticism towards my son for over ten years, Your Majesty," James explained softly. "From the day he became the Institute's greatest prodigy till this very day, not a day has gone past where I have not had to appease someone's fears regarding Harry. For all his faults, Your Majesty, Harry __is__ loyal, and he __is__ brilliant. He'll return in time to save us."_

_Surprisingly, even Dumbledore seemed to agree with this statement, which stunned James as he saw the older wizard nod sagely. "I agree with Lord Potter, Your Majesty," he told the queen. "His Grace is an amazingly talented commander, and nobody's fool. If anyone can save us in time, it will be him."_

_Hiding his smirk underneath his long, flowing white beard, Dumbledore turned to James, who remained stunned at this unexpected show of support from the older wizard._

"_The question remains, of course, __how__ we manage to __buy__ the young Duke the time he needs to come back," he summed up. Unsurprisingly, Elizabeth, Sulu, and James nodded, as did the court, albeit more due to the fact that they had no voice in this matter, regardless, due to the blanket silencing spell._

_The court had been dismissed, then. Other than James, Sulu, a number of the Imperial brass, Dumbledore, and Elizabeth, no one else remained in the room. Elizabeth herself had risen from her throne and paced atop the painted image of the world on the floor. The group had then discussed the plan for defending New Britannia until the relief forces could arrive. It seemed that it was a general consensus that Harry would realize the Death Eaters' ploy and return immediately, but they all knew that the journey back would take time, considering that Harry would have to organize his fleet back into an appropriate combat-ready formation, and then establish a battle plan._

_And so, standing in the audience hall of the palace, the group vowed to buy the Duke the time he needed to return._

* * *

Thinking back on the meeting, Elizabeth felt that perhaps little had been achieved in way of preparation for the invasion. Certainly, they had assigned patrol routes and contingency plans for when the Death Eaters made landing on Harrisburg, but nothing so concrete as to guarantee that Harry would return in time to save the capital. Or, if not Harry, then any of the remaining Imperial brass.

Of course, to think that Harry _wouldn't_ come was something Elizabeth wasn't even willing to contemplate. If Harry didn't manage to see through the enemy plan, there was little hope for the rest, regardless of how brilliant as Sulu and his colleagues were.

Already, from the safety of her room, she could see the approaching dark mass in the sky. It was still quite small, indicating that it was far away, but it covered enough horizontal length as to make her realize that the Death Eaters were really throwing everything they had at Harrisburg. This was going to be it—the final battle, one way or another.

Praying silently, Elizabeth hoped dearly that it was to end in the Empire's favour.

* * *

At the Potter home, meanwhile, a similar, yet different meeting was taking place amongst the family members and their supporters. All seated along the long, wooden table in the dining hall, the Potters and their allies had their attention solely on James Potter, who sat at the head and was currently informing the clan of the situation.

"As expected, the Death Eaters have finally found Harrisburg," informed James. "They have seemingly decided to throw everything they have at the capital, which is also in line with Harry's prediction."

Sirius leaned back in his chair lazily. "What's to be done, then?" he asked, though he didn't seem at all worried. "I imagine Harry left us a plan?"

Matthew leaned his head onto his fist. "Of course he did. He wouldn't be Harry if he hadn't seen right through the enemy's plan," he reassured Sirius.

Alexandra yawned. "More like he used their plan for his own needs," she corrected. "He knew damn well what would happen if the Death Eaters ever managed to find Harrisburg."

"Language, Alex," chided Lily, though she was also seemingly calm about the whole situation.

Maximilian chortled beside his wife. "Chiding her for foul language on the cusp of a major invasion?" he chuckled. "Only you, Lily…"

"May we know the details of the illustrious plan?" asked Remus, trying to steer the conversation back on track. Still, while he seemed the most preoccupied of the group, it seemed more out of performance anxiety than actual worry about the results.

James looked over to his daughter-in-law. "Do you want to tell them, Ginny?" he asked. "You know it better than I do."

Ginny shook her head politely. "No, thank you James. Please, go ahead," she assured the man with a smile before taking a dainty sip from her glass of wine.

Bill seemed bored throughout the chatter, for his part. "Will we be needing anything from the warehouse?" he asked, referring to the stockpile of weapons and ammunition that the Potters kept for just such occasions. "I've had several dozen anti-personnel Reductor mines be transferred there, by the way."

"What about the MAG Cannons?" asked George.

"Are they operational?" asked Fred.

"'cause if they aren't,"

"This could be more difficult than it should be," finished Fred. Both twins were currently playing what seemed to be an odd game of who could turn the other's hair a different colour, paying only minute attention to the meeting.

Clearly, no one in the room felt much anxiety about the invasion.

"The program we need to reverse the damage has been completed for some time now," replied Bill, who was staring at his fingernails. "We'd long theorized that the Harrisburg Imperial Defence Grid might someday be infiltrated, so it's been ready for quite some time now."

"Will it work?"

"With this particular coding, we mean," added George.

"It's adaptive, so it shouldn't be a problem." Inserted Alexandra.

"What about the enemy troops?" asked Bill, who was relaying for Blackthorne.

"Just follow the plan and nothing bad should happen," answered James.

"What about releases?"

"They're just Terracotta soldiers, Remus; you shouldn't ever need to perform one," dismissed Sirius.

"Do you think anyone realizes just how much of this is going according to plan?" asked Maximilian with a smirk as he blew out some smoke from his cigar.

"Of course not," replied Remus casually. "Everything has been so carefully planned that it looks like natural progressions of events," he noted. "Still, finding the Queen was surprising."

"Hmm," agreed Bill. "It certainly threw Harry for a loop," he remarked before taking a drink from his cup of wine. "Had to reassess the plan to include his duty to Empire."

Ginny smiled. "Ambitious as he is, my Harry is a man of duty nonetheless," she agreed. "That's one of the things I love about him."

"Yes, and we can probably guess—"

"—what at least one _other_ thing he has you love," teased Fred and George lewdly. The twins quickly shut up, however, once their hair colour turned multicoloured—Ginny had wandlessly and silently cast multiple colour changing charms without them noticing.

"What about the other project we've got going?" asked Lily, holding up her cup of tea daintily. "Valkyrie, was it?"

"It's going as well as can be expected," replied Bill noncommittally. "It's a very tricky thing, we're trying to do. Gene therapy, even with the current non-magical advances, is still a nascent science. We've got to be exceedingly careful."

"Especially considering who our current subjects are," added Alexandra. "We all have a vested interest in seeing to it that they come to no harm, after all."

Ginny nodded firmly. "Absolutely. Take as much time to develop the project as you need to keep it safe."

"We've deviated from the topic, however," intervened James. "Right now, the pressing issue is the Death Eater's rather imbecilic invasion of our great Empire's capital."

"I thought we'd finished discussing it?" asked George.

"Aye, after all, we've gone over releases, weapons, and so forth," added Fred.

James shook his head. "No, no. Now we need to discuss placements. After all, we can't expect the paltry garrison left here to do all the work, and Harry has left us several suggestions for maximizing the defensive capabilities of whatever's left here."

Bill sighed. "That boy's foresight never ceases to amaze me," he mumbled.

James grinned at the praise for his son, and continued to do so as he broached the topic at hand. "Very well, listen up. This is what we're supposed to do…"


	19. Chapter XVI: Invincible

_AN: Next chapter! Sorry for the delay, everyone. Was busy moving to the UK, where I'm doing a semester abroad.  
_

* * *

_Aboard the HMIS Invincible…_

The _HMIS Invincible_ was a masterpiece of engineering.

Built to outclass any other ship in both naval and air combat, it was designed to be the flagship of the Empire and its class, the aptly-named _Invincible-Class_ Assault ship. Dwarfing even the colossal _HMIS Retribution_, the newly outfitted flagship of the Duke of Halifax, the _Invincible_ bristled with guns and yet possessed enough of a sleek frame as to be considered beautiful.

Boasting room for over 10,000 crewmembers, it was supposed to house entire invasion forces and to also relieve some of the overpopulation problems that New Britannia was experiencing, what with the constant inflow of refugees from Europe and the Americas. From the United States alone, over 45,000 people had arrived by way of rafts from Florida, nearly dying in the process, had it not been for an errant Royal Navy vessel that had been on patrols and gotten lost.

What was more impressive was the weaponry complement of the _Invincible_ and its named-after class. While the previous Assault ships had used Serpent-Class guns, the medium range type, the _Invincible_ was fully equipped with Leviathan-Class Cannons, making it a deadly opponent.

Or, at least, it would have been, had construction been finished on it, and its crew recruited properly. Instead, it was a poorly armed, if heavily defended, moving time bomb. The MEG Reactors (all three of them, which was three times more than a small city required to be fully powered for a decade) had been pre-programmed to go into overload within a certain distance of the enemy fleet, and the rest of the ship had been packed with explosives.

Nevertheless, the sleek, blue-and-grey hulls of the four _Invincible_-class ships made a fearsome sight to behold as they glided through the air towards the enemy fleet at full speed.

At the helm of the _Invincible_, the flagship of the foursome, acting captain Henry McNamara stood erect, his face an implacable symbol of utter calm as he led his skeleton crew to their deaths. Utterly clean-shaven, fit, and wearing a crisp navy-blue uniform, he looked the perfect poster-child for the Imperial Navy. For that matter, he also held an academic record that outshone many of his peers, which was why most of his crew regarded his command of the _Invincible_ as rather odd. After all, why cut short the life of such a promising officer?

"Mister Yates, alter course two degrees to starboard."

"Two degrees starboard. Aye, aye, sir."

Slowly, the reinforced windows at the front of the bridge began to show that the ship was indeed moving slightly towards starboard. Eventually, the correction was made and McNamara was so informed.

Nodding once, the captain acquiesced their report. "Excellent. Message the _Implacable_, _Relentless_, and _Empire_. Have a full report on the status of their reactors ready within twenty minutes."

"Aye, aye, sir."

At this last order, many of the crew looked at each other oddly. Why did McNamara want that sort of information? The reactors were pre-loaded with a program to go into meltdown procedure. Beyond that, there were standing orders to report any problems with the reactors, but nothing else. The captain was acting strangely indeed.

"Mister Perkins."

"Aye, sir!"

"What is the status of the Apparating areas?"

"Sir?" asked Perkins, confused. Those areas weren't supposed to be under any sort of use for another good two months.

"The Apparating areas in decks five, seven, twenty-three, thirty-five, and fifty-four, Perkins. What are their status?" asked McNamara again, this time more crisply as he hated to repeat himself.

Perkins blinked before looking down at his console, which reported on operating systems. Typing in a few command codes, Perkins squinted as the bright status report began to write itself at high speed.

"Apparating areas are…what the?" he muttered. His eyes widened as he re-read what he swore couldn't be possible. "…operational?"

McNamara nodded, pleased.

"B-but sir…they shouldn—"

"Thank you, mister Perkins, that will be all," cut in McNamara as he kept his eyes glued on the window before him, his eyes staring avidly at the growing dark blot before his small fleet.

The Death Eater Armada.

The greatest one ever seen since the start of the war.

As his crew busied themselves with the procedures they thought was required for the mission, McNamara took a few steps back and allowed himself a fierce grin.

His mission was almost complete.

He could still remember the secret orders he'd been given after leaving the Admiralty at Harrisburg…

* * *

"_You want me to __what__?" asked McNamara, shocked._

_The man before him looked grimly serious. "You heard me, Lieutenant. You will apply for command of the Invincible, then lead your fleet straight towards the Armada as per the Court's plan."_

"_B-but…Captain Williams…"_

_One of the men next to his host waved the concern away wearily. "He'll be taken care of. No need to worry about him." McNamara wondered what that could possibly mean.  
_

"_But the mission is a suicide run!" protested McNamara_

_His host gave him a fierce smile. "Are you saying you're not willing to give you life for the greater cause, mister McNamara?" he asked challengingly._

_McNamara glared at the man before him now. "Don't twist my words! I would give my life for the cause, but I would rather also live to see it fulfilled!" he asserted. "I don't believe in any of that post-mortem nonsense!"_

_A third man chuckled at McNamara's statement, and a woman he'd not seen before in the room also laughed softly. His eyes were drawn to her shadowed figure unwillingly. It had an oddly…melodious sound to the hell were these people? How did they know what they knew? Just how long ago had they been planning this for?  
_

"_Don't worry your pretty little head about dying, Lieutenant," assured the third man, who was grinning down at him condescendingly. "You won't be in any danger."_

_McNamara's eyes snapped back to the men now. "What do you mean?" he asked suspiciously._

"_You're of more use to us alive than you are dead, McNamara," answered the second man. "So we'll see to it that the mission that the Court set up doesn't kill you. All you need to do is follow their plan up until the meltdown procedure, at which point you will simply __not__ activate the program."_

_McNamara's jaw dropped. "B-but…without the detonation, there's now way to cause any real damage to the Armada!" he gaped at his hosts. "The ships would be nothing more than flying hunks of metal!"_

_The first man arched an eyebrow, and the woman seemed highly amused by something he'd said. "Is that so?" asked the first man amusedly.  
_

_His host had then smiled, a confident tone to it. "Don't you worry about that. Just get your fleet into position, then we'll take care of the rest."_

* * *

McNamara never considered himself anyone's dog, but at the moment, he did concede that the plan was a sound one, albeit complicated and totally out of the norm. Still, this meant promotion, and the patronage of a _very_ wealthy and powerful faction within the Imperial system.

McNamara's smile became just a bit fiercer now, as the Armada came within engagement distance. This was it. This was the time when his allies would take over, and his own, thankless part in this would be over.

As the klaxons rang out due to the proximity alarms, triggered by the incoming projectiles and dragons being launched from the enemy ships, McNamara's attention instead went towards Perkins.

"Mister Perkins!"

"Aye, sir!"

"Fire up the Apparating chambers!"

That caught the crewman off-guard. "S-sir?"

McNamara glared at the man as the ship shook from a small impact. It barely dented the hull, but the force of the impact had been strong enough to still cause a bit of a tremor.

"Do it, damn it!" barked McNamara. Thus jolted out of his stupor, Perkins immediately typed away at his console, activating the Apparating chambers one by one.

"Sir!"

McNamara turned his attention to the crewman who'd called for his attention. "What is it?" he demanded.

"Shouldn't we activate the program? We're well within range, sir!"

"No!" retorted McNamara. 'Not yet,' he thought as the ship shook once more from a missile that exploded near the hull.

The situation remained this same way for another ten minutes or so, when one of McNamara's crewmen asked the same question again, this time far more desperately, however, as the enemy was beginning to dent the ship's thick armour.

Instead of replying, however, McNamara turned to Perkins. "Perkins! Status of the Apparating chambers?" he demanded.

"Still nothing, sir!" replied Perkins, now thoroughly confused by his captain's actions. "Sir, we're not expecting anyone. Why--?"

"Nevermind that, Perkins!" rebuked McNamara as he held on, feeling the tremor of another hit. "Just tell me when they become active!"

The bridge rocked a bit as one of the blasts from the enemy ships impacted with the shield violently. "Shields to maximum!" shouted McNamara.

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Perkins sighed in frustration at the order, his eyes turning back to the console before him, wondering whether the promising officer had snapped under the realization of the suicidal aspect of the mission. He momentarily thought of going behind his captain's back and turning on the program, when the console finally beeped at him.

Lazily lifting his eyes to the console screen, his eyes quickly widened as the report came in that all of the Apparation chambers—structures that had been built for human transportation across ships without the need of shuttles—had become active and were in use.

"S-Sir!" shouted the man as he stood up in alarm.

"What is it, Perkins?" asked McNamara irritably.

"The chambers! They're active!"

McNamara snapped his attention to the crewman before cheering mentally as he turned to the scene of chaos before him and smiled triumphantly. The plan was in motion. Everything was going right according to his superiors' orders.

Suddenly, the door that led to the hallway behind the deck beeped loudly, indicating that someone had input the right access codes and was coming in. Knowingly instantly who it was, McNamara spun on his heel and, throwing a crisp, stiff salute, smiled at the new arrivals, while his crew looked on in sheer shock.

"Welcome aboard, sir."

The moment was one that would be burned into Perkins' mind for the rest of his life. Even when he was old and grey, and was recalling what little of his life he could remember to Clarence Horatio Winters, the man who would one day become famous for his book, _History of the New British Empire_, this particular moment was one of the sharpest memories he had.

For it was the memory of when the tide was turned. When the stalemate of the war was completely shattered.

From here on out, the war was to become far more deadly, and at its helm would be one of the greatest war heroes of the age.

Walking up the stairs to the deck, the window's light slowly showing the crew his identity, hands clasped behind his back, his infamous red coat billowing in an unseen breeze, his messy, untameable hair giving him a handsome demeanour only sharpened by the confident, fierce smile he wore, the man strode into the bridge slowly, confidently. His every step had the crew's eyes glued to him.

And, slightly revealed by the walking motion, a lightning bolt scar on his forehead appeared, hidden underneath his hair.

"Gentlemen, time to turn the tide."

The Iron Duke had arrived.

The crew watched in awe as the Duke of Halifax made his way to the platform by the windows that McNamara had stood. The ship's captain had quickly vacated the platform, instead standing demurely to one side as the architect of the Empire's greatest war machine took his place.

"Is everything set, Captain McNamara?" he asked. The officer flushed with pride at the words out of his superior's mouth. It was as good as a formal promotion to the position he coveted.

"Aye, aye, Your Grace," reported McNamara. "The enemy fleet has been stopped here, although we have reports of several troop carrier-sized transports bypassing the formation to attack the capital," he added. "Shall we scramble our fighter contingents to intercept?"

Harry shook his head. "No, no…" he replied dismissively. "They'll be well taken care of."

"Aye, sir," agreed McNamara, before turning to view the battle beyond the windows as well. He made himself comfortable, too, placing a hand on his hip—after all, this was most likely to be a very long battle.

"What is the situation regarding the staffing of the ship?" asked Harry as he calmly observed the barrage the enemy fleet was launching on the _Invincible's_ shields.

McNamara turned his head to the Perkins, who was nominally in charge of such affairs. "Perkins! Report!"

The poor man jumped in his seat at the barked order, and quickly fumbled with his terminal to bring up the information requested. "Ah, err…aye, aye, sir!" he stumbled. "Reports indicate that Engineering is now fully staffed, and only half of the weapons emplacements are ready to fire!"

Harry shook his head. "Not yet, then."

"Sir?" asked McNamara.

"When we launch our own barrage, Captain, it will be one that will make them regret ever having _imagined_ attacking the Empire," replied Harry. "Let me know the moment all weapon placements are fully online."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Sir!" reported the radar technician. "Radar indicates several incoming dragon squadrons from the enemy fleet!"

"Scramble the fighters, Captain," Harry easily replied.

"Aye, aye, sir! Scramble the fighters!" ordered McNamara loudly. Feebly, he could hear the answering call of "Scrambling fighters!" from the technician in charge of giving the go-ahead to the full contingent of fighter squadrons that had been hidden in the hangar bay.

"Fighters scrambled!" came the next report. "Wings Falcon, Lion, Black Knight, and Joker report engagement with the enemy!"

While McNamara nodded, pleased, Harry kept his eyes on the battle outside the window. He could see the Imperial fighters roaring through the skies chasing the dragon riders, or vice-versa, and the exchange of fire between the two lit up the sky like nothing else. Of course, even that exchange was overshadowed by the bursts of light that emanated form the head-on collisions of Death Eater rounds against the shields of the massive Imperial airships.

"Sir!" called out Perkins, slowly managing to reconcile reality with what he was experiencing. "Weapon systems are now at seventy five percent staffing capacity!"

"Sir?" asked McNamara towards Harry. The young Duke, however, shook his head.

"Not yet."

"Sir, the _Implacable_, _Empire_, and _Relentless_ all report full staffing," called out the communications officer. "They are asking for orders."

"…" Harry stayed silent, so McNamara took over.

"All ships are to ready for concerted, mass weapons barrage!" he ordered. "Do not open fire until His Grace orders it!"

"Aye, aye, sir! Holding fire!"

"Sir! Wings Lion and Black Knight report cleared sectors!" relayed the appropriate officer. "Wings Joker and Falcon report stiff resistance, however, and request reinforcements from Lion and Black Knight."

"Do it," answered Harry promptly to McNamara, who had been looking up to him.

"Aye, aye, sir!" agreed McNamara, who then shot out his arm towards the reporting officer. "Send squadrons three and four of both Lion and Black Knight to reinforce Falcon and Joker!"

"Aye, aye, sir! Sending reinforcements!"

"Sir!" Perkins shouted then. "Weapon systems staffing is complete! All systems are now operational!"

Harry's calm demeanour vanished at those words. Instead, they were replaced by the most feral smile that McNamara had ever seen—strangely, it made the newly-appointed Captain's blood run wild as well. Perhaps it was the magical aura the Duke was emitting unconsciously, or their own bloodlust finally awoken, but everyone suddenly seemed as energized as the Duke was.

"All ships, target the first line of the enemy fleet," ordered Harry. "On my signal, open fire with _all_ firing units."

A moment passed as the weapons officers relayed the orders and got their replies. Eventually, one of them, taking the initiative, called out, "All weapon systems ready to fire, Your Grace!"

Harry smiled, eyes narrowed in predatory pleasure. He gave one nod to McNamara before the officer turned to his crew and, bringing up an arm, immediately swung it down.

"_OPEN FIRE!_"


	20. Chapter XVII: Defiance

_AN: Next chapter! This one's dedicated to my American readers, who must've felt put out when I had their government join the Death Eaters._

* * *

_Harrisburg_

The chaos of the riots had begun to die down. The military had finally managed to stop the rioters from crossing into the sheltered islands, and were making vast improvements in dispersing the crowds. It wasn't that they didn't feel pity for them, or couldn't relate, but the word of law was absolute.

The fires had also begun to die out as the firemen made up of both Gifted and Ungifted volunteers began to make headway in extinguishing the Molotov-induced fires. Slowly, every neighbourhood seemed to calm down once more as the military forced down the law, arresting anyone who resisted.

It was in the middle of finishing these arrests, however, that the first wave of attacks came.

The only warning the soldiers had before total chaos erupted again was a few pops, followed by several shouts, causing several of their number to fall over, dead.

The troops quickly rallied, however, and formed a protective line between the attackers and the populace they had just been trying to disperse. One particular officer of the Imperial Army turned to the crowd and urged them to flee towards a safe place, doing a complete 180 on his previous attitude, which had been to order them to disperse or face arrest.

"Men, form line!"

The previously-crowd controlling company of soldiers suddenly moved straight into formation as the order was given. Two lines of shining red uniforms was formed, each man standing completely still, even as spell fire took one or two of their number.

"Front rank, kneel!"

In unison, the front line of redcoats quickly took a knee.

"Line…_present!_"

The two rows now brought up their rifles, oblivious to the shouting crowd behind them that was trying to flee. They were soldiers. Their target was before them. This was what they were trained to do; what they were _born_ to do.

"Aim!"

Each man now picked his target as the Death Eaters advanced. One or two more redcoats fell as the haphazard fire from the Death Eaters occasionally hit the line. Their screams, however, were drowned in the surrounding chaos and explosions.

For a moment, the line did nothing, its officers also seemingly frozen in the moment. The crowd behind them looked on in horror as the Death Eaters came ever so close, while the redcoats fired nary a gun. What could possibly be preventing them from opening fire? What reason did they possibly have to allow the enemy to advance?

The answer came in an abrupt, deadly, and thunderous roar as the entire line suddenly opened fire at the Death Eaters at barely fifty yards. Immediately, an entire wave of Death Eaters crumpled to the ground amidst the cheers of the crowd. The soldiers, however, did not falter for one moment in their training, and quickly reloaded their rifles, bringing them up to shoulder as they awaited for the next wave to come within the dead zone. The next volley proved just as deadly.

It was at this time that the officer in charge turned once more towards the onlookers. "Didn't I tell you to run?" he demanded. "Quickly now, while we can still hold them!"

While that served to instigate quite a large percentage of the crowd to indeed flee, about thirty men and women stayed behind, offering to help. Looking incredulous as his sergeant took over giving the soldiers orders, the lieutenant was shocked to see that the stragglers were indeed refusing to leave until they had helped.

Thinking quickly, the lieutenant had an idea just as the next wave of Death Eaters began to march forward.

"Get as much boxes, tables, and cars as you can and stack them in a line behind us!" he ordered. "We'll use that to take cover." Then, pointing at a particular woman, he added. "You, head off to military headquarters and tell them we're facing unknown numbers and request reinforcements and ammunition."

Their orders received, the civilians quickly got to work, breaking car windows and raiding nearby houses and pubs for the desired covers. Meanwhile, the brave soldiers who stood between them and the Death Eaters were slowly dwindling down in number as the barricade was being constructed. Of the hundred or so soldiers that had been there initially, about 20 had died, and another 14 were wounded. Soon, however, the barricade was done, and the civilians quickly urged the soldiers to pull back.

Sabre in hand, the Lieutenant quickly rallied what was left of his men. "To the barricade, boys!" he urged on. "Fall back and give 'em hell! Lyles, get the guns!" he added to his sergeant, motioning towards the discarded rifles that were on the ground, courtesy of their dead brethren.

Quickly, the redcoats jumped over the barricade and took cover behind the haphazard arrangement of random objects. Quickly, though, they brought their guns to bear once more, using the barricade only to cover most of their bodies, unless a better angle was needed.

To the civilians, the Lieutenant offered them the rifles. "You've earned it," he told them as they looked surprised by his offer. "You risked your lives and safety to help protect my boys. You deserve the opportunity to fight beside them too, if you so wish."

Unsurprisingly, all but three of the group went to the barricade and joined the redcoats in their defiant stand. The remaining three were left alone to leave, without a harsh word said against them. The soldiers were already grateful enough that they had provided the barricade.

Before them, however, the Death Eaters slowly gained ground. Despite the barricade providing them a somewhat safer ground to fire from, and their own steady, disciplined fire, the Death Eater incursion seemed to never end, and their ammunition was running low.

Even worse, more of the redcoats had gotten injured, leaving the group down to about 50 soldiers and civilians. Sergeant Lyles, for his part, had been killed by shrapnel to the face when a Death Eater hit the car frame he was hiding behind with a _Reducto_. That left only the lieutenant as officer in charge. The corporals and the other sergeant had all been killed in the initial action.

Cursing under his breath as he looked around his cover to see the enemy's progress, the lieutenant seemed certain that there was no way to hold the position. Still, he couldn't leave, either. Further down the road was the intersection that led to the island bridges that connected the island to the rest of the archipelago. Pistol in hand, the lieutenant quickly abandoned his cover and fired a couple of shots at the advancing Death Eaters, killing one and wounding another in the leg. Quickly getting back behind his cover, the lieutenant felt immensely pleased with himself at the achievement.

Still, as he counted his remaining bullets, he realized that he had enough only for about a few more volleys, but no more.

"Craig! How's your ammunition coming?" he shouted down the line.

"Almost done, sir! We need ammunition soon, or else we'll be overrun!" answered private Craig. "Jenkins and Johnson also are having ammunition issues!" he added.

The lieutenant nodded, and cursed his luck. His men had not loaded up to fend off an incursion! They had been deployed for crowd control, not last-stand defence! Still, there was only one option left.

"Craig!" he shouted again.

"Yes, sir?" came the equally shouted reply over the gunfire and explosions.

"Fix bayonets!"

Silence came over the soldiers as they realized that they were at the end of their rope. To be in their position and fix bayonets meant that the ammunition was quickly running dry and no relief seemed imminent. That only left one option: defend each square inch of the road in melee combat.

Taking out his now-sheathed sabre, the lieutenant nodded to his men as he sat leaning against the box he was hiding behind. "Not one step back," he told them sternly. "We gave up Britain without a fight. Never again."

Nodding in agreement, the soldiers started to repeat those last two words to themselves, almost chant-like, while the civilians, using the opportunity to fire a few more shots to slow down the Death Eaters, were quickly running out of bullets.

Eventually, the expected call came. "I'm out!" cried one of the women as she crouched next to the lieutenant.

"Me too!" added one of the men further down the line.

The lieutenant closed his eyes then. Raising the back of the blade of his sabre against his nose, he muttered a quick prayer, begged for forgiveness for his sins, and then suddenly shot up to his feet, momentarily stunning the Death Eaters into a halt.

"I am William Black!" declared the lieutenant courageously. "And as long as a breath lies within me, _you will not set one more foot forward!_ Sons of Britain, _CHARGE!_"

His defiant roar quickly summoned any fleeting courage in his men, and the remaining soldiers quickly came to their feet and jumped the barricade once more, this time _towards_ the enemy. The civilians, overawed at the redcoats' courage, gave each other a look and, nodding at each other in agreement, quickly followed suit, inspired by the men's reckless bravery and staunch defiance of death.

The British impromptu charge seemed to take the Death Eaters completely by surprise, as it took them a full minute to settle their ranks as the 50 remaining defenders charged them with bayonets, rifles, and knifes, where able. Perhaps the reason they were so stunned was because they could not comprehend the British courage that beat within the hearts of each of the defenders, who with shouts of rage and openly defiant glares managed to cut down a large swathe of their number in their initial shock.

Eventually, however, the defenders began to feel the pressure of the apparently insurmountable odds being borne against them. After losing about five more of their number, the defenders were quickly surrounded by the Death Eaters, who seemed intent in first finishing off the men and women who had retarded their plans for so long.

Standing back to back in a loose circle, William Black's defenders took advantage of the fact that the Death Eaters seemed more intent in mocking them first for their courage to take a breather. In the middle of the loose circle was Black himself, who had been injured by a stray cutting spell. His leg was bleeding moderately, and his uniform was ripped up quite dramatically as well.

"Mister Black," whispered one of the women, somewhat shakily. "I…think this is the end of the line, sir."

Black wheezed as he laughed at the woman's observation. "Lass…call me William. All of you, call me William. Brothers and Sisters in Arms don't have formalities between them." Black grimaced suddenly as pain shot up his leg from his wound.

The woman in particular quickly knelt to his side, leaving another of the group to plug the hole she'd made in the protective human cordon. Smiling at the lieutenant as she tried to help bandage the wound more firmly, she softly replied to the lieutenant, a gentle hand on the young man's cheek.

"Then call me Amy, William," she told him.

Smiling through a grimace of pain, William chuckled at Amy's request. "Of course…Amy…"

The Death Eaters seemed to find some sort of insult in the camaraderie, however, and promptly began closing in the circle around the defenders. Drawing the cordon ever tighter, the remainder of Black's defenders readied themselves for the last moment of their lives. For most of them, this had not been the way they thought they would go. But for others, like Black, it was perfect.

If his sacrifice were at all remembered, it would go down in history as one of Britain's finest last stands.

Awaiting with closed eyes, his face looking up to the heavens, seemingly at peace with himself, Black awaited his death.

And so, was surprised when an explosion tore through the Death Eaters instead.

Walking through the smoke that billowed upwards from the blast radius, which had essentially cut a path back to the barricade, a figure approached the group with an easy, confident stride. None of the defenders could make out the person walking towards them, yet. Instead, they kept their protective circle tight, and Amy hugged Black protectively as she looked at the silhouette making its way towards them.

It was at that moment that an odd sound caught Black's attention.

Jingling.

The same noise that keys made when rattled together.

No…

Black's eyes widened as he recognized what the sound was. He'd heard it before. On a program shown on television back when he lived in Britain.

It had been an American show. A cowboy show.

The figure now stepped out of the smoke, revealing a blonde-haired, muscular man with a confident smile, and a Lancer's lance in hand.

"Howdy."

_Spurs_.

For a fleeting second, Black imagined that the man wearing cowboy boots and spurs would die at the hands of his enemies, but a stance-like crouch, and a blur later, he was instead in the midst of the Death Eaters and was quickly dispatching one after another. Like water, the man flowed here and there with little hindrance, each time taking out one or two, or even three Death Eaters with his lance.

And though his blonde hair hid his eyes from Black, the man's ferocious grin was enough to tell the battle-hardened lieutenant that the man was thoroughly enjoying himself. The man's lance was thoroughly soaked with blood as well, further enhancing its already vicious and jagged appearance.

Just as the Death Eaters regrouped and seemingly began to swarm the man again, however, more spurs caught Black's attention, causing him to look in the same direction as the first man had come. Out of the dust and smoke walked out several more lance-wielding men, each of them wearing a Continental Army blue coat. All of them were looking quite determined, and Black felt his heart skip a beat as they moved unanimously forward, laces at the ready.

"At'em, boys!" someone cried out, and the effect was instantaneous.

Like a striking rattlesnake, the blue-coated men charged forward in a sudden move, launching themselves at the enemy before them with ferocious battlecries. Aimed high, low, or straight forward, the barrage of lances tore into the Death Eater ranks as the blue-coated men's charge hit the Death Eater line. No longer was the blonde man alone. His comrades had arrived.

And then, another noise caught Black's attention. Rifle shots.

Looking up towards the buildings flanking the street, he could visibly ascertain that there were several more blue-coated men kneeling on the roof tops, aiming down at the advancing Death Eaters and picking them apart.

Black watched in admiration as the blue-coated warriors ripped apart the Death Eater ranks as only British soldiers had been able to thus far. At the head of the charge was the blonde man he had seen initially, his distinctively ornate lance glinting in the sunlight, despite the enormous coating of blood the blade had on it.

A lance thrust here, a shot there, and the Death Eaters were soon in a full route.

It was nothing short of miraculous to William Black. Moments ago, he had resigned himself to his death. Now, there was hope. He could go to a hospital, recover, and then plunge head first into the conflict once more.

He watched as the blonde leader of the blue coats walked up to him after the Death Eaters had been routed, and knew he was staring quite indiscriminately. Still, this did not seem to faze the man, whose blue eyes shined through now with vigour and the satisfaction only a predator could feel. Giving Black a sloppy salute, the man grinned before introducing himself.

"Colonel Nathaniel Pike. Third Texan Dismounted Lancer Volunteers, of the American Resistance. Pleased to meet'cha."

* * *

_Aboard the HMIS Invincible…_

Amidst the total chaos created by the devastating volleys from the four _Invincible-_class airships and their fighter complements, the Iron Duke's confident smile suddenly turned a bit more fierce, to the confusion of the crew, while his own staff seemed completely at ease with the change in attitude.

"Excellent," he spoke softly. "The twentieth and twenty-first steps are complete."

"Orders, sir?" asked McNamara, completely unfazed by the change in behaviour in his commanding officer.

Harry's smile was predatory now. "Initiate steps twenty-two and twenty-three…_now_."

"Initiating steps twenty-two and twenty-three; aye, aye, sir."


	21. Interlude: The Dragon's Will

_Courage is a kind of salvation_ _– Plato_

* * *

_Darkness._

How many days had passed in the world outside of the dingy cell? How many months? Years, even?

The redheaded man had no idea how long he had been in his cell. He had no clue how much time had passed since he had first been captured. All he knew was that the world had turned upside down, and that everything he'd been told, all the ideals he'd been raised with, were now worth squat.

Raising his hand made the chains rattle. He hated that noise. Always had.

Ever since he first became entranced with the world of dragon keeping, he had hated the chains that held down the great beasts to the ground, finding them cruel and unjust. Dragons were creatures of the sky, not of the earth, and as the years passed and their wings failed to make them soar, the dragons grew more and more passive, dumb, and content. It was tragedy in the purest sense of the word.

In a sense, he now felt the same way.

The chains rattled a bit more as he raised his hand so it would be eye level.

His own wings had been chained down, so to speak. He could do nothing but content himself in the misery that was his life right now. He would sleep when allowed to, eat when fed to, and nothing more. What was even worse was the fact that he knew the world outside, and it tortured him to know that it existed, that he had_ lived_ in it, but could now neither see it, nor touch it, much less experience it.

Heavens, what had he wasted his life _doing?_

Gone to school, done well, become popular…what did it all matter in the grand scheme of things? Where had his potential, his dreams fit into all that? What did it all matter now?

They were fleeting dreams—useless distractions, if viewed more uncharitably. They couldn't get him out of his cell now, or feed him good food, or prevent the guards from torturing him. He had never been taught by anyone how to survive this sort of situation. Never even imagined it _could_ happen to him.

Heavens, how silly he realized he'd been!

What made him different from so many others? What had possessed him to think he could possibly live out his entire life in normalcy, while the world around him burned to ashes? What is some sort of irrational pride? Unrestrained arrogance?

Whatever it was, he decided to let go of it—for whatever good it'd do at this juncture.

Well…

At least he'd have a clear conscience, he supposed.

That _had_ to count for something, right?

He sighed before letting the darkness consume his thought once more.

Weeks passed for him, and so far, his captors had said nothing to him, instead revelling in the indirect torture they applied to him by preventing his sleep. However, he did notice that one day, a man—a Death Eater he supposed; he couldn't quite make out the person because of the glare from the light outside—came in and seemingly observed him for a bit before leaving. At least that night, he was allowed to sleep without any problem.

For the next few days, it seemed to him that conditions were improving just a bit, with every day something new happening. The first day and thereafter, he was allowed to sleep. The second day, his rations were improved in quality. The third, his chains were lengthened enough to let him stand up and walk around his cell, and so forth.

By the seventh day, he had begun to regain some of his old strength, and had begun to do some push-ups as a way to keep himself occupied, having been given the chance. His visitor returned that day.

"Amusing. You believe working up your strength will get you out of here?" asked his visitor mockingly. The man didn't reply, continuing his work-out. His visitor took no offense, however, and merely observed in silence. He left about fifty push-ups later.

The scene repeated itself the next day, and the day after that, with the visitor remaining in the cell observing the redheaded man for longer and longer periods of time. Eventually, one day, he asked outright.

"Do you know why you're here?"

The redheaded man deigned his visitor with a glance and a curt shake of the head. His visitor sighed and put his palm to his forehead in frustration. "Something to be said for bureaucracy, I suppose," he mumbled.

Silence returned between the two.

"Why do you keep coming to visit?"

The visitor was unruffled by the question. "Do you wish for me to stop?"

Silence again, before, "No. It's different. Please continue."

A crooked smile made its way onto his visitor's face. He couldn't quite make out the man's face, covered in shadows as it was, but he could clearly see the smile.

"Would you like to know why you're here?" asked the visitor at length. Silence for a moment before the redheaded man nodded once. "You were here as a bargaining chip."

"Were?"

"The person my superiors wished to use you against is presumed dead," elaborated the visitor. "Allegedly killed in the coup."

"Who was it?"

"Ginevra Weasley," was the prompt response. "The Duke's wife."

"Ginny?" asked the redheaded man in confusion. "But…she's only…nineteen!" he protested. "And she isn't _married! _Much less to a _Duke!_"

The visitor chuckled. "You _have_ been in the dark, haven't you?" noted the visitor wryly. "According to Imperial sources, your darling sister has been married to Harry James Potter, known to us as the Duke of Halifax, the Iron Duke," he informed his captive. "And, for the record, your sister is now twenty-one."

"I've been here…_four years?_" asked the redheaded man in horror. He had, at most, counted two years. His calendar, self-made and carved into the stone, only counted two years!

The visitor chuckled. "Ah, yes. Your calendar," he broached, as if reading the man's mind. "While you were asleep, some of the guards seemed to find it quite fun to mess around with you by changing the amount of scratches. It's wholly inaccurate, I'm afraid."

The redheaded man slumped against the wall of his cell despairingly. "Why are you doing this to me?" he asked. "If your target is dead, why even keep me alive?"

The visitor gave him a steady look for a moment before replying. "I never said Ginny Weasley was dead," he noted, before standing up. "Time for me to go. If I stay too long, people will start talking."

The redheaded man was quick to lash out with an arm and grabbed his visitor by the arm roughly. "Wait! Tell me what you want with me!" he demanded.

The visitor turned back to look at him. "You are not yet ready to hear what I need to tell you," he judged simply. "You have no purpose, no goal. You have accepted the chains that bind you as your fate. Until you break free of those chains, you will not be ready."

With that, the visitor clasped the redheaded man's hand and forcefully removed it from his own arm. "Remember that well. Break free of the chains that will keep you in this cell forever, and I will tell you what you wish to know."

What did _that_ mean?

The redheaded man did not see his visitor for a while after that, and so the man focused his thoughts on breaking his chains, certain in the knowledge that doing so would get him the answers he wanted. He chipped at the metal with rocks, banged the cuffs against the wall, clawed at them on end.

Gradually, slowly, they loosened. Confident in his victory, the man slammed them against the wall one last time, and the clasps broke open. His wrists were bloody—the price of inflicting so much damage on the clasps—but he did not care. _Now_ he would get his answers.

Except the visitor never came.

The redheaded man felt like howling in fury as his visitor apparently lied to him. He wanted to rage against his captors, break from his cell and rip them apart for the torture they had inflicted on him. It had been the final drop in a glass already full. He had _enough_.

"So, you've broken free."

The words came two months after the redheaded man had broken free from his clasps. Instead of focusing his rage on an unseen character, however, he had decided to focus on escaping.

"You're late," snarled the redheaded man.

"How do you figure?" asked the visitor.

The man raised his wrists. "I've freed myself months ago, and _you_ didn't show!" he snapped at his visitor, who seemed amused by the man's rage.

"Did I ever say that you were to break free from your physical chains?"

The man was about to rage at his visitor before stopping. What did he mean? Why did he specifically specify his physical bonds?

"You're finally getting it, I think." Noticed the visitor.

The man shook his head. "I don't understand."

And suddenly, the visitor was right in front of him, where he had been a good three meters away before. The visitor raised a single finger and poked the man's head gently and kept his finger there.

"The physical bonds that keep us in place are the easiest obstacle to overcome," lectured the visitor. "But the bonds that keep our minds forever in our cells, eternally sapping our strength and holding us back—_those_ bonds need time, motivation, and courage to be broken."

The man looked up at his visitor half in awe, and half in suspicion. "Who are you?" he asked.

The visitor chuckled. "I am you, of course."

"What?"

The visitor smiled as he stepped into the light that broke through the bars of the cell. Indeed, the visitor was none other than the very same man who was also on the floor, looking at his visitor in awe.

"I am you," he repeated. "I am the you who refuses to sit still, to be bound to the ground," elaborated the visitor. "I am the part of you who suffers most when you are in this place, the part of you who thrives on being free to fly the skies at our leisure."

The man had no response to that. Instead, he chose to ask, "What is this place?"

The visitor smiled. "You don't understand? This place is you as well. Well, more precisely, it's a _part_ of you," he conceded.

"How?" asked the man.

"You made it," replied the visitor simply. "You made it when you gave up, two years into your stay at a Death Eater concentration camp," informed the visitor. "Even as others around you plotted to escape, you've clipped your own wings and chained yourself to your prison, making your escape impossible."

"People have escaped?" asked the man, memories slowly filtering in. He could remember now…a plan! There had been a plan to escape! Pike! He remembered Nathan Pike! The crazy, fool of a man who'd cooked up the insane plan to escape from the camp!

The visitor smiled knowingly. "You've started to remember, haven't you?"

"Yes…" confirmed the man, grabbing his head with one hand. "It's slow, though."

"That's normal," assured the visitor. "Too much at once would send you into a catatonic state."

"I wasn't aware I had such an extensive vocabulary," noted the man in a weak attempt at a joke. It made his counterpart chuckle, however.

"As I am not your conscious self, I have the privilege of digging out the information buried in your subconscious. You know the words—you just choose not to use them," explained the visitor with a serene smile.

The man's arm went through a short spasm at that moment. Both men looked at it.

"What's going on?" asked the man. The visitor gave him a calculating look.

"You are being woken," explained the visitor.

"I'm asleep?"

"Not exactly," corrected the visitor before sighing. "I guess woken is a bad choice of words. You're being yelled at would be more descriptive, I suppose."

"Why?"

"Because you refuse to escape," came the simple answer.

"What?" asked the man, stunned. "But I broke free, didn't I? You said so yourself!"

"And yet here we are, in your cell," noted the visitor.

And so, suddenly, the man understood. He had broken the chains, demonstrating his refusal to surrender, but he had not shown the courage to take the steps out of his cell. He had merely spoken, but done nothing. A determined look flooded his face as he pushed himself off the ground and onto his feet. As he passed his counterpart, he whispered,

"Thank you."

And disappeared the moment he stepped out the door.

* * *

"—Charlie!"

A sharp, stinging sensation flooded the man's brain as he regained conscious control over his sight. Images slowly formed around him, slowly gaining coalescence. Before him, holding him by the front of his work-shirt was Nathaniel Pike, a long-time prison-mate who had successfully escaped two weeks prior.

He had _slapped_ him.

"Bloody _hell_, Nathan, did you have to _slap_ me?" demanded the man indignantly as he rubbed his cheek.

Pike grinned, replacing the frown he had previously worn. "Charlie! Welcome back!" he greeted joyously. "Hate to break it to ya, pal, but we gotta ske-daddle!"

Charlie looked around him, noticing the fighting occurring around the yard. Some of the prisoner huts were on fire, and he could see many a guard laying face down on the ground, as well as the occasional prisoner. Oddly, he also saw what he guessed were militia, given their rag-tag appearance but oddly superior weaponry.

"What the heck did you do _now_, Pike?" growled Charlie. Nathan grinned roguishly.

"You know me," said Nathan. "I go into a bar alone, I leave with a mob!"

Charlie was about to give a witty reply when instead he focused on catching the rather wicked looking spear that Nathan had tossed him. "Nathan! What the _hell_, man?" roared Charlie. "You could have _stabbed _me, you reckless _twat!_"

Nathan grinned. "You know I love it when you speak sweet nothings to me," he replied without a care in the world, instead easily cutting down two guards who'd been sneaking up on him from behind. "Now, you out of la-la land, yet? We've a prison to liberate!"

Charlie replied with no words. His feral grin was enough.

"And when we're done, there's this fella I wanna introduce you to!" added Nathan, before following Charlie into the middle of the fighting. "Calls himself the Iron Duke!"

Two hours later, the camp had fallen to the American Resistance.

* * *

The visitor now remained alone in the cell, and he smiled up at the ceiling, even as it disappeared—slowly breaking down like a puzzle.

"Do you know?" he asked no one in particular. "The pain of having to live in a cell all by yourself?"

The man smiled sadly. "Never forget the lessons you learned here today, and you'll live long and free," he promised, even as his own feet began to slowly disintegrate.

"I promise you…"

"Charlie Weasley…"

* * *

_AN: I know it seems a little weird to post this interlude here, but bear with me. I've been writing these interludes and planning them out for a while now, as a way of delving into the motivations and several "missing scenes" from the Dark Wars quadrology. Bill's scene in "The Eagle's Wisdom," for instance, showed him at work, and his own analytical motivations for following Harry. Charlie's will do the same. There are two more interludes waiting upload, as well, so just a head's up, eh? - Marquis._


	22. Chapter XVIII: Steel and Fire

_AN: Since the last chapter was an interlude only, I figured it was only fair to upload this one at once--especially since it involves a character focused on in the previous chapter. Have fun! - Marquis_

* * *

_Skies of Harrisburg_

Thought the main Armada was still a ways off from the actual city, the Death Eaters had wisely deployed their dragon forces in advance, in order to cause as much chaos as possible, which would ideally allow for a smoother landing of troops.

Separated into squadrons of four, the multitude of Death Eater dragons swooped all over the city, blasting jets of fire into random buildings, sometimes getting lucky and causing one to explode.

Unfortunately for the Death Eaters, they had chosen one of the pre-evacuated islands for their attack, so their actions were merely structural in destruction. Still, the scene was a pitiful one. Left and right, the old-fashioned, Edwardian housing complexes were torched by the dragon's fiery breath, and the flames rose skyward like angry serpentine tongues of death and chaos.

Had the scene been painted dot for dot, it would have likely been considered beautiful, but the reality was much more traumatizing. As the buildings of Harrisburg burned under the fiery might of the Death Eater's dragons, with it went most of the hope the Queen herself felt from the palace window. Her plan had failed. The four ships she had sent to their deaths had not stopped the incursion, for why else would the dragons be here, then?

She couldn't understand it, though. How could the plan not have worked? The _Invincible_-class airships had more armour coating than any other airship ever engineered. A single airship of its kind could take on ten airships of the _Vengeance_ type. Given four, all equally armoured, then there was no reason that the _Invincible_ and its four sister ships, the _Implacable_, _Empire_, and _Relentless _could not complete their mission.

That left nothing. Nothing at all.

The ships of the Imperial Navy could not take down the dragons this far in. Beyond that, they also faced the responsibility of forging a last stand to stop the advancing Death Eater armada that she was sure was coming. The entire airfleet was out of range, due to various immediate emergencies that were reported throughout the Empire.

In the north, the American territories they had held since the incursion were now under heavy attack, and Nova Scotia and British Columbia were under heavy fire from the besieging forces of the Death Eaters and Americans.

In the immediate west, the outlaw faction of O'Connor was launching a violent and heavy campaign against Imperial shipping, and the Death Eaters had launched an offensive against the Caribbean territories of Jamaica, St. Kitts & Nevis, Grenada, and the rest of the British islands.

Then, in the south, the Falklands, for the twentieth time since the start of the war, had fallen under siege by Death Eater sympathetic forces in Argentina.

Then, to the east, the African territories were in peril due to a significant increase in Death Eater troops in Egypt, and India was rapidly losing its own ground against the Death Eaters, all the while refusing British help. It was idiotic of them, and somewhat petty, but short of their approval, she could do naught to help them.

Then, in Australia and the surrounding region, the Death Eaters had attempted a flanking manoeuvre, and as such, most of their forces down their were tied up.

That left no one to save New Britannia. It was a foolish mistake on their part, but in their sense of complacency, nurtured by years of successful hiding, they had fallen for the Death Eaters' trap.

The result was before the young Queen's eyes. Dragons laid waste to a neighbourhood with jets of flame, and while the casualties of this particular attack would border on nil, the emotional damage, as well as the structural, would be massive. Not to mention that when the Death Eaters finally invaded, they would find too little a garrison to put up an effective fight.

That was when a sight caught the attention of the most distraught Queen. Suddenly pushing the gothic windows wide open, much to the consternation of her ladies in waiting, Elizabeth's eyes widened as she saw black spots rapidly fall from the sky. Immediately, her heart fell as she thought them to be more dragons from the invading fleet, but her despair quickly turned into jubilation as she saw the spots engage and shoot down several of the Death Eater dragons.

And yet…Elizabeth squinted to strain her sight. There was no doubting it—the saviours of Harrisburg were dragons, too!

In amazement, she watched as the newcomer dragons suddenly and violently tore through the formations of Death Eater dragons. Tears of joy trailed down the young Queen's pale cheeks as the welcome sight was furthered by the recently arrived news that the garrison in Harrisburg had been reinforced by an unknown force.

Falling to her knees, the Queen wept freely in happiness as she realized the situation had completely changed to their advantage. No longer would Harrisburg burn.

Help had arrived.

* * *

_Above Harrisburg…_

The scene of carnage that the Death Eaters had wrought upon one of Harrisburg's islands was terrifying to behold, despite the lack of human casualties. Buildings collapsed under the weight of the increasingly heavy and concentrated rubble, and houses burned, with pillars of ashen smoke rising into the air like heralds of death and destruction.

To the newly arrived reinforcements, it was a horrid scene to behold—one that put a fiery rage into the very hearts of the dragon riders, at whose lead was a Norwegian Ridgeback, mounted by a redheaded man, in whose free hand lay a lance. From that lance, right underneath the blade, dangled a chain, onto which was attached several open-faced lockets, each of which seemed to have a picture of a redheaded person. Only two of them were female. His golden armour shined brightly in the daylight, the silver cross on his chest plate glittering.

The scene before him enraged the young dragon rider, who had lost so much in the past few years. His family, his freedom, his friends—all gone! His memories were burned with recollections of imprisonment and torture that had lasted years, and it had only been his release one year ago that had kept him from completely losing his mind. But now, right now, right before him lay the opportunity to wreck havoc upon those men and women who had deprived him of everything, and he swore to make them pay every offence with death.

Raising his lance in the air, the dragon rider closed his eyes in focus for a moment before muttering something, causing a large Union Jack flag to appear, hooked to his lance.

"Dragon Lancers!" he roared through the wind, his voice magically enhanced. "FLY NOW! FLY! Fly to battle, and the Darkness' ending!"

With a mighty cheer, the dragon riders behind him quickly urged their dragons into a steep descent, following the lead of their redheaded leader. All of them held their lances close to their bodies, in order to ensure that they would not lose them.

Except for the redheaded man.

His arms muscles bulging from the strain, he kept his grip tight on his upheld lance, looking like a scorpion ready to strike at its prey as he and his dragon dove at brake neck speeds towards the enemy. Flapping in the wind, the Union Jack billowed proudly in the descent, announcing to all the arrival of the Dragon Lancers.

The Death Eaters barely had a chance to react to the impending descent of over fifty of the Lancers before they were in their midst. Almost immediately, the first of the Death Eater dragons was struck down by the leader's Ridgeback, while another had its rider killed by a lance thrust from the redheaded man.

Following closely behind, the rest of the Dragon Lancers plunged into the enemy formation, taking down two-three dragons in the process. It was bloody, and violent, and it drove the Lancers nearly wild with euphoria as they took down the murderers who had deprived them of their homes and families.

Eventually, the Death Eaters broke off their attack, having sustained horrific casualties at the hand of the better trained, and far more ferocious Dragon Lancers, and flew away in hasty retreat.

His dragons still quite able to fight, the redheaded man merely gave the retreating enemy a condescending glare as one of his subordinates flew her dragon close to his.

"The enemy retreats!" she cried jubilantly. "What now?"

The redheaded man gave the retreating dragons a calculating look before coming to a decision. "Foster, take your team and Brooks' and give chase. If you near the Armada, break off and retreat back here."

The pretty blonde nodded before raising her lance and twirling it in the air, announcing her team to regroup to her. She then pointed to the mentioned Brooks and signalled him as well, making the brunette man nod and lead his group to the rallying point as well.

For his part, the redheaded man was left with forty able bodied dragons and their respective Lancers. Raising his own spear in the air, the Union Jack still flapping in the wind quite noticeably, he gave his order.

"Lancers! Make safe the city!"

The man looked down towards the ground, where he could see some of the British garrison barely holding back oncoming swathes of Death Eaters. Raising his lance in a rallying gesture, the man looked back at his squad and cried out with a shout.

"Follow me!"

* * *

Foster was almost flat on her chest as her dragon flew after its prey at full speed. Behind her, the others in her squad were in a similar position as their prey, the defeated and retreating Death Eater dragon riders, sped away from their pursuers.

Unfortunately for the Death Eaters, their dragons were beginning to suffer from fatigue, as they had been forced to bypass the _Invincible_'s blockade, the fighter screen, fly all the way to Harrisburg on their own power, and then fight other dragons. As such, it was not long before Foster, who was at the head of the Imperial squad, caught up.

At Foster's prodding, her dragon snapped shut its jaws on the rear-most dragon's right wing, causing the victimized beast to roar in pain, while its handler tried to regain control desperately. His efforts were cut short, however, by the timely intervention of Foster's spear, which lodged itself in his chest with one swift stroke.

Foster just as quickly pulled out her spear and pulled her dragon away from the hurt enemy dragon, resuming their chase of the enemy squad. Some of her people had already passed by her, following Brooks' lead.

"Let's go, Ruby," whispered Foster into her dragon's ear, making the beast roar in anticipation. Flapping its mighty red wings, the dragon lurched forward, making Foster let out an unexpected giggle as she enjoyed the ride.

Thankfully for Foster, Ruby was one of the faster dragons in the squad, making up for its lack of combat ability with its split-second agility and superior speed. Soon enough, they had caught up to Brooks, who was about to lead the squad into the midst of the enemy dragons. He waved over to her and grinned.

"Glad you could make it!" he spoke cheekily through their communication spell. "Thought you decided to dump us!"

Foster grinned. "As if I'd let you have all the fun, Brooks!"

A joint chuckle went through the communication spell, indicating the group's amusement with their leaders' banter.

"You lads ready?" asked Foster as they neared their foe. A series of acknowledgements returned through the spell, and Foster nodded, before turning her attention to Brooks. "Brooks?"

"All yours, Foster. Ladies first."

Foster grinned before giving the order. "Alright. Everyone, pull up! Diving tactic fourteen!"

Almost immediately, all of the dragon riders pulled on their reins, nudging the dragons upwards. Foster could see the Death Eaters look up at them in confusion, and some joy. She assumed they thought that she and her people were pulling out. How wrong they were.

Foster's squad flew right into the cloud cover several dozen feet above them, effectively removing themselves from the Death Eaters' view. The wizards were looking around wildly now, having grown suspicious of Foster's squad's movements. Even their retreat had halted altogether as they tried to regroup, shouts emerging from all sides as they tried to make sense of the situation.

Then, out of the blue, one of the Death Eaters who had looked up cried out in alarm as Foster's squad dove from the cloud cover right above them, all in a spiral conical formation, with Foster at the very tip and leading the charge.

"Charge!" cried out Foster as she led the way. Ruby roared in a similar vein, causing the other dragons in the charge to emulate it.

Grabbing her reins with her teeth, Foster forced herself onto her feet as Ruby swooped down towards the enemy group. Foster barely heard the questioning warning from Books through her spell as she let the adrenaline make her focus go into tunnel mode. She had her eye on the central enemy dragon—a big, vicious looking Hungarian Horntail.

Just as Ruby was about to pass by it, Foster threw herself off her dragon and onto the enemy Horntail, spear in hand (completely ignoring the worried and frantic cries of her comrades). On the dragon, she noticed that two people were occupying it, one which Foster assumed was a rear guard fighter. She quickly dispatched him with a vicious grin and an overhead diagonal slash of her spear, causing the man's comrade to turn around urgently.

The man drew his wand, ready to fight, and both fighters lost all notice of the raging battle around them. Even the Horntail seemed to be unaffected by all the war, and Foster realized that it had been bred to be a sort of airborne command centre, and that the man she'd just killed hadn't been a rear guard, but rather the man coordinating the enemy dragons.

Foster grinned as she realized the coup de grace she had just unwittingly delivered to the enemy group. The Death Eater before her, however, seemed bent on avenging his colleague, and threw a spell at her. It was vicious looking, so Foster wasted no time in dodging it, though it was a close thing, since she couldn't move very much due to the narrowness of the dragon's back.

Foster did a front flip as another spell came at her, also vicious looking, and crouched down as yet another flew above her head. This sort of acrobatic ability was nothing to her—Foster had been a ballet dancing student in Denver when the war had broken out. She had joined the student protests against the government, but had never believed Washington D.C. to fall so low as to employ dictatorial methods of silencing the opposition. In one evening, that illusion had fallen to pieces. The crowd she was with had been assaulted by American wizards and collaborative policemen armed with assault rifles they had looted from the local arms shops. After more than thirty protestors lay dead, the crowd had dispersed, but the wizards and policemen had chased them down and caught a few, killed some more, and taunted those who had managed to flee with their lives. Foster had been wounded as she tried to escape, having gotten shot in the shoulder. The pain had been excruciating then—now, it seemed nothing.

Foster danced around the spells coming at her with ease, her comrades still performing fly-by's against their own opponents. Brooks managed to take down two, she saw, given the number of masks he had dangling from his spear shaft.

Everyone had their own way of counting kills. Foster herself had notches on her spear shaft detailing the amount of Death Eaters and collaborators she'd killed. Even before Harrisburg, she had already accumulated twenty. Two of those happened while she was interned.

The internment camp she had been assigned to was horrible. Though, impartially, it was nothing like the Nazi camps, she felt as though it was. The sanitation was horrible, and though they weren't forced to work, they _were_ forced to hear American government officials explain to them why Washington had needed to do what they did. The first such person was booed away, but by the second year, Foster had heard enough, and had led a riot against the authorities by rushing the speaker. She had strangled him to death, but was not killed herself—the authorities were worried that her death would rile up the prisoners into another riot. Almost overnight, she had become, unintentionally, a symbol of resistance in her camp. As punishment for her murder of the official, she was put in solitary confinement for six months, in the hopes that her acts would fade from memories if she was cut off from her audience.

It was not to be, however, and after six months, she was welcomed back to the group with open arms from her fellow inmates. She was treated as a hero, and asked for advice on resisting their captors. Foster was caught unawares by the hero worship they had for her, since she had committed the murder out of spontaneous instinct, rather than as part of a bigger plan towards freedom.

Foster grew into her role gradually, however, and soon was plotting with several other inmates how to break out of the lightly-defended camp (since the American government had no worries about a break out, this being the beginning of the war). In the end, the plan fell through, but Foster's current leader had come to the rescue.

While the camp resistance movement had tried to take over the camp, they had been unaware of a nearby passing Airship carrying reinforcements. The Salem camp had been broken out of a few weeks ago, and the government had sent reinforcements to all camps. It was such that it was the resistance's bad luck that the day they chose to rebel was also the day the garrison was being reinforced. In short, the resistance was all but crushed when the reinforcements were stopped by another force.

Using stolen Air transports, the American Resistance, led by a redheaded man with a grim face, came to their rescue, using the transports' weapons against their former owners. The leader, who had kicked off one of the wizards who had attempted to rape her, rescued Foster herself. Quickly getting to her feet, the near-traumatized Foster had taken the wizard's wand and plunged it into his chest, killing it. Tears had streamed down her soot-covered cheeks, as her emotions just broke free after the near-rape. Only the redheaded man's gentle hand had gotten her back on her feet and into the Air transport.

By now, Foster had managed to get within slashing distance of the second wizard on the Horntail. She delivered a slash and was surprised to see that the man had dodged it, letting loose another of his spells in return. It missed her barely, but still managed to leave a thin cut on her cheek. She didn't mind. The days of her superficial beauty mattering had been left well behind. Instead, she retaliated with coolness and brought up the blade of her spear in an upper slash, which managed to cut the man's chest a bit, though not fatally. The wizard still stumbled a bit as he dealt with the pain of the slash, but Foster paid little attention to his plight, instead following up with a thrust that the wizard barely dodged.

Another spell came at her. Turning on her heel, she let it fly by, before lashing out again with her weapon. It was probably the lengthiest fight she had ever had with a wizard, who were, for the most part, incredibly dumb on their feet. She quickly followed up her thrust with a horizontal slash, this one managing to incapacitate the wizard's left arm—not his wand arm.

The wizard was now gasping for air as the pain wracked his brain. Foster decided to put him out of his misery, slamming down the blade of her spear into his left shoulder and cutting down into his heart. The wizard gave a final gasp before falling to one side, slipping off his dragon, and down into the sky below. Foster was now left with an empty dragon, which she could not, in good conscience, leave alive, in case the Death Eaters ever used it again, and she wasn't sure that any of her people could be used to drive it back, and using dragons to corral it was right out.

She could hear cheers coming through the spell, which she took to assume that her squad had won. Satisfied with the results, Foster put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly, and upon hearing a familiar roar, she smiled. Ruby was on her way. Of course, she had no way of knowing the sex of her dragon, but she liked to think that Ruby was a she.

Foster started to twirl her spear above her head with increasing speed. When she had enough of a momentum going, she brought down her spear into the back of the Horntail's head. The tempered steel, reinforced with magical spells to ensure endurance and sharpness of the blade, sliced through the hardened skin like a hot knife through butter, ending the creature's life quickly as the blade dug into the brain.

Foster paid little attention to herself as the dragon thrashed and fell beneath her feet. She was not strapped on, and so let herself fall slightly above it, until she saw Ruby fly towards her. Snapping her arms to her side, she pointed herself in another direction, separating from the enemy Horntail, and let grinned as Ruby put herself under her. As she had not fallen too far, the slide into the saddle of Ruby did not hurt her, especially as the dragon had taken care to drop a little slower than she did, for a smoother transition.

Back in her saddle, she slipped her feet back into their straps and took a hold of the reins once again, only to be met by one of her subordinates, who flew his dragon next to hers.

"Where's Brooks?" asked Foster through the spell. The man shook his head sadly.

"Marigold," Brooks' dragon, "took a hit. Went down just before you took down the Horntail."

"His chute?" another shake of head. "Damn. Charlie won't be pleased."

Still, there was nothing to be done about it. She regretted the loss of a fellow rider, true, but there was a battle to be won still. The skirmish they had just fought was but a theatre of something larger, and losing sight of that would do no one any good.

Reins in and leaning her spear against her leg, Foster nodded to her subordinate. "Alright. We're done here. Signal the others to retreat to the city—Charlie will be needing our help."

* * *

"Sir!"

Harry didn't bother to divert his attention from the battle raging outside his window. Instead, McNamara took over.

"What is it, Lieutenant?" he asked, turning his head towards the communication officer.

"Transmission from the capital!" most officers now turned their heads towards their colleague. Any news from the capital was bound to be critical. "A Charles Weasley is reporting that…yes…yes…yes, that all Death Eater dragon squads have been eliminated!"

Even as a cheer went up in the bridge, McNamara turned his eyes to the Duke, waiting for orders, and perhaps waiting for a change in expression. A glimmer of happiness, perhaps, or even of hope. But it was not to be. With supernatural calm, the Duke nodded to McNamara before speaking.

"The twenty-third step is complete. Initiate step twenty-four."

"Aye, aye!" replied McNamara, before turning to the crew. "Send the order on channel five! Initiate step twenty-four!"


	23. Interlude: The Lion's Roar

_Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_I never wanted this._

Neville Longbottom had this thought minutes before his sight turned to the dark void of nothingness, barely processing, in his mind, that he had just been run through by an enormous icicle through the stomach.

_This life…I never desired it…_

In that one opportunity we mortals get to review our entire life, Neville observed himself, dispassionately, as he grew from a frightened eleven-year-old, to a confident, heroic, and brave colonel.

He watched as, in his first year, he was shunned by his classmates for his shyness and general clumsiness.

He watched as he first noticed Ginevra Weasley, the future Ginevra Potter, be sorted into Gryffindor. He had been thrilled when the younger girl had offered a kind hand in friendship which, being starved of such connections, he eagerly took.

He watched as, later in that year, Ginny had mysteriously disappeared, only to return hours later, battered, bruised, and shaken, telling an awesome tale of a boy who'd single-handedly slew a basilisk.

He watched as, slowly but surely, Ginny had become more and more enthralled in a pen pal she'd gotten shortly after the basilisk incident, and had even managed to lure Neville into a similar friendship with her mysterious saviour.

He remembered the thrill of having such a friend, of being part of something so…amazing, which was opposed to all his other activities in Hogwarts.

_Why did I do it?_

Belonging.

That single word resonated throughout Neville's spirit more than anything else.

For years, the shunned, chubby, brown-haired boy had felt out of place in the den of lions. He had never understood why he was Sorted into Gryffindor, when his impulses tended to dictate "run" more often than "stand." At best, he saw himself a Hufflepuff. At worst—a cowardly Slytherin, cursed by his pureblooded background.

People had never realized it, but the lack of social acceptance had gradually taken its toll on the poor boy during his first year. Hardly a shining example of Gryffindor bravery, Neville had been seen as a disgrace to the House of Gryffindor, and what was worse, Neville knew it.

So when Ginny Weasley had offered her hand in friendship, he had avidly accepted it, his new friend unaware just how close to the edge he had been. And then, with her disappearance, every black emotion he'd ever felt came rushing back, intensified even more when she reappeared, claiming to have been saved by a mysterious boy wearing a military uniform.

Jealousy.

Neville had always felt longing for the friendships around him, but never jealousy. But now, knowing that his only friend had been saved by someone other than him—her only (to his mind) friend, had driven him to enormous jealousy.

It hadn't been until later, when she convinced him to start his own correspondence with Harry, that he'd let go of his jealousy.

Belonging.

Neville had been amazed with Harry's world. The sense of belonging that this boy, no older than he, conveyed through his writing struck a chord within the young pureblood. Where he was considered the next best thing to a Squib in the Magical world, Harry was offering him the chance to enter a world where, not only would he be accepted, but he could rise by merit in any form alone, not simply due to magical ability or family connections.

Finally, he could belong.

And so he joined in Ginny and Harry's little conspiracy, blindly at first, willingly later on.

_Willingly…?_

The question floated in his mind for but a second, before he admitted to himself that he _had_ willingly given himself up to the Cause. Though blinded at first by his thirst for friendship, he had nonetheless grown to understand what he was getting into, and by mid-third year, he had embraced his decision. He gave himself up for the Imperial Cause—mind, body, and soul.

Damned for eternity, if need be. That was the measure of his loyalty.

_Why…?_

Because now he had friends.

_Now_ he was respected.

_Finally_, he was not alone.

Finally, he had something to fight for. Something to believe in. Something to die for. A reason to live, even, when all that had previously occupied that space had been a simple willingness to one day simply stay asleep for eternity.

His depression left almost as soon as he willingly embraced his path. His thoughts turned away from death and loneliness and towards a brighter, shining future instead.

Where he had once seen a bleak, unforgiving future awaiting for him, he now saw hope, and a desire to make this hopeful future a reality.

And so he'd grabbed his wand, slung a rifle onto his shoulders, practiced his skills, and when the Royal Proclamation was given in 1998, he had marched out of Hogwarts with the rest of the Loyalists.

For that was what he was. A loyalist.

Someone who is loyal to the rightful government. The only government.

The Crown.

_The Crown…?_

By gods, Neville had been surprised at the reception he and his fellow students had received when they'd reached the RNA camp. Thunderous applause and cheering had followed, as well as numerous slaps on the back. The students were treated as heroes, and all because they were loyal, because they refused to be intimidated by the lies and promises of a disloyal government.

And then, when they'd reached the English border, the reception had been even grander. A local Loyalist magical town had come out onto its streets to celebrate their arrival, with fireworks, dancing, and music filling the area. Like liberators of a conquered area, they were received as heroes.

And all because hey had been loyal.

_But I never desired this…_

This wasn't true. He _knew_ it not to be true. He had _loved_ the way the people had looked up to him as he shyly walked down the streets of that particular town.

He had _loved_ the cheering and applauding when he had later on been granted his commission.

He had _loved_ the way Susan, in particular, had always seemed proud of him for standing up for what he believed in.

_Susan…_

Even on the border of death, the pretty red-headed girl wasn't far from the core of his thoughts. Hair like a wildfire; temper to match—the exiled Hufflepuff had been his devoted companion since Hogwarts; his perfect equal. She matched him in devotion and loyalty, and was vivacious enough to keep him from retreating back into his anti-social shell.

Their first night together, spent in secret in their seventh year, had been…well…_magical_, he supposed. _Fantastic_ would be another way to describe it.

Their first kiss, too, had been quite a fireworks show. And yet, Neville doubted she would have so much as looked at him had it not been for his decision to turn to the Imperial cause—for that decision had transformed him from a shy, nearly-friendless person into a confident, quiet young man who never flinched from a fight he believed in.

_Susan…_

Neville gritted his teeth as his eyes snapped open, showing two, raging brown orbs that seemed to defy death itself as the handsome Imperial officer grabbed the icicle impaling him and slowly pulled it out of him. His enemy was nowhere to be seen—undoubtedly leaving him for dead. That was their first mistake.

Their second was leaving Neville, an expert at duelling and healing, his wand.

"Wait for me, Susan…I'm coming!"

Weakly grabbing for it, the brown-haired young officer turned the wooden instrument on the icicle, banishing it with one swift jab. That left the problem of the now gaping hole in his stomach. Grimacing at the pain, he quickly set to work, racing against the blood loss in an attempt to repair the damage to a point where he wouldn't necessarily bleed to death.

It took some quick thinking, and not a small amount of repeats before Neville managed to heal himself out of an imminent death. But then, this hadn't been his first such serious wound. In one particularly nasty engagement against the Death Eaters in South Africa, he had been run through with a poisoned spear, and it had taken all his willpower to prevent himself from fainting into the eternal abyss of death.

"Come on, Longbottom…" he hissed at himself, slowly using his arms to lift himself into a seating position against the wall. He winced in pain as his stomach flared up, but managed to contain the scream of pain that so wanted release. Instead, he forced himself to concentrate on the situation at hand.

"Okay…so now what?" he asked himself softly. It was obvious not much, if any, of his men had survived the battle. After all, Neville had been the final line. Odds were, every single man of the Third Legion had been killed in this godforsaken place.

"Sir!"

Neville was snapped out of his musings by the call. Could it be?

Sure enough, a couple of bedraggled soldiers crossed through the broken in doorway Neville had crashed through. "Sir?" asked one of them. A long, bloody scar seemed to make its way across his right cheek. "Are you ok?"

Neville snorted. "…Been better, corporal," he said with a weak grin, causing the men to chuckle appreciatively. "Help me up"

The soldiers complied and lifted their wounded commander on his feet. Neville stumbled a bit, but the men's tough grips kept him up. Giving them a thankful nod, Neville asked the question he'd been wanting to since he'd seen them. "How much?"

"Fifty, sir," replied the corporal who'd helped him up. "None of the sergeants or officers survived, though, sir—except you, of course," hastily added the man at Neville's ironic look.

Neville nodded. "Fifty…it'll have to do," he mused out loud.

"Sir?" asked the other soldier, a private. Neville turned his eyes on him. The poor man was pale and his hands were shaking. "What the hell _was_ that?"

Neville shook his head. "Don't know, private. But whatever it is, we need to get the hell out of here before it decides to check its handiwork."

The two soldiers nodded at their commander's observation. "Where to, colonel?" asked the corporal.

Neville gave a tight smile. _Colonel_. That was his life. The life he had chosen. And by gods, he would live by that choice. It was time to implement his friend's plan.

"Get the men together, corporal. We're heading south. To the Appalachians."

"Yes, sir!"


	24. Interlude: The Shadow's Desire

_"When it is dark enough, you see the stars." - Charles Austin Beard_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The man ran down the alley, crying out hysterically for help. As his feet splashed in the puddles, the man ran for his life towards the other entrance of the alley, only too late realizing his mistake.

There was no other entrance.

Looking around desperately for an exit, the man quickly spun on his heel and pressed his back against the brick wall behind him as he stared in fear at the shadowed figure at the alley entrance.

"N-No! Please! I'll do anything!" he cried pathetically as he raised his hands intuitively in futile protection.

"Redemption," whispered the figure in a feminine voice as she took a step forward.

"P-Please!" repeated the man.

"Power," the woman then said, her left foot absently stepping into a puddle, making it splash slightly.

"I-I'll give you anything! Money!"

Splash. The white cloak was spattered by a few droplets of water.

"Glory."

"L-Lands!"

"My God has it all," the woman recited, as if chanting a deeply religious mantra. Her steps came closer now, the pitter patter of the rain softly hitting her cloak. The man had neve beforer seen anything so utterly terrifying in his life.

"Slaves!"

Almost immediately, the man felt himself be pressed painfully against the wall. Opening his eyes, which had shut due to the reflex action to the pain, he saw that she'd raised an open palm towards him.

"Let all those who love God, all those who fear him…"

"P-Please! I beg of you!"

Suddenly, the woman, who had been meters away, now had her face close enough that he could see under the hood. Fiery red hair billowed slightly inside the white hood, and chocolate-coloured eyes were staring at him neutrally. A pale, freckled, and yet, beautiful face completed the visage of his killer. Despite himself, the man felt enormous attraction to the woman who was about to end his life.

"W-Who are you?" he asked breathlessly.

"…Let us all praise God."

The man grunted in pain as he suddenly felt a cold presence pierce into his stomach. Looking down as the woman stepped back, the man saw blood blotting his clothing and, giving his killer an incredulous look, he saw a retractable blade covered in his blood peeking out of her right sleeve.

As he felt his life leave him, the man desperately desired to go out on his terms—giving one final insult to the woman who'd killed him. His body, on the other hand, protested the action, and he slowly slumped forward onto the ground, a pool of blood spreading from underneath his lifeless corpse.

Staring down at the dead body, the woman said one more thing before disappearing into thin air, having performed the symbol of the cross in the air with two fingers..

"Hallelujah."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_I've killed again…_

Ginny quietly watched her husband passionately argue in the Queen's presence for swift attacks on the American west coast, where several Resistance cells had petitioned for aid from the Empire.

_My hands are strewn with blood…_

Looking down at her pale, delicate hands, Ginny couldn't help but envision the almost constant presence of that red liquid splashing her hands as her work forced her to take one life after another. The same hands she used to carry her beautiful daughter, and used to touch her husband and friends.

_Why do you love me?_

It was a question that haunted her after every mission. How could her Harry love her so much despite her ever-growing list of kills? How could he bear to even look at her, knowing that to some other man, she was the last sight he'd seen on this world. How could he bear to touch her, make love to her, knowing she was tainted with the blood of nearly a hundred men?

_How can you touch me?_

She felt dirty all the time now. Even more so when she carried her beloved daughter, or made love with her husband. She could feel the hatred, the fear, the very horror of her victims all the time. Even turning to religion had not calmed her conscience.

_Why do I do this?_

She knew the answer, of course. Even then, she repeated the question to herself after every kill, after every death. She knew that all her victims deserved their fate. Slavers, arms dealers, Death Eater generals, Collaborator leaders—all scum that needed to be eliminated for the Empire to rise to the Heavens.

But even then, she knew it wasn't about the Empire. It wasn't the war that drove her to don the white Arabian outfit. It wasn't loyalty to the Queen that made her sharpen her retractable blade before every mission.

_I love you, Harry, Sarah…_

That was all there was to it. She loved her family. She loved her little daughter, who seemed to be constantly bursting with insatiable energy. She loved her husband, despite his faults and many sins. With all her body, mind, and soul, she loved her family.

And so she donned the white hood, sharpened the hidden blade, and killed men ruthlessly in alleyways all around the world.

She watched now as Harry was authorized for his mission. He had that look on his face. Pride, courage, and determination. All qualities that made her love him every day. Despite his occasional cruel streak, despite his orders to occasionally wipe out entire villages, she loved him. She was determined to see his succeed, to see him reach his goal.

_My soul is a low price to pay for that…_

Ginny stared at her latest victim, who was looking up at her, raggedly coughing out blood as his hate-filled gaze pierced her eyes.

"You'll never win, Shadow Queen," he sneered, blood trickling down the corner of his mouth. "You'll never be remembered, either. A shadow, that's all you are! History will forget you!"

Ginny cupped the man's head between her hands and lowered her head near to his ear.

"But you'll be forgotten first," she whispered, before bringing down her blade into the man's heart.

The man gasped in pain for a second before slumping, dead, against the wall, his wide, horror-filled eyes staring blankly at the overcast sky.

Standing up from her crouching position, Ginny looked up at the sky as well, allowing the first trickles of rain to fall on her pale, beautiful face.

_I am shadow. I am death._

Ginny kept looking up, even as the shouts of the local guard came closer.

_I have but one mission. One goal._

The guards finally reached the entrance to the alleyway and shouted in dismay as they saw their leader's corpse, but no one else.

_I will help you reach your goals, my love._

Ginny watched neutrally from the top of the building as the guards swarmed the alley, looking for their leader's murderer.

_For that, I will be your shadow._

She dropped in the midst of the group, blades extended out of her sleeves. The Death Eaters shouted in panic as they barely had time to realize what was going on.

_For that, I will kill.  
_

A slash here and a stab there, and two more men fell victim to her. One of the Death Eaters tried to put her Cruciatus on her, but a flexible bending of her back allowed her to dodge it and instead cause the man to curse a colleague instead. Neither men had time for apologies, as she swiftly dispatched them. Four down.

_For that, I shall be a Shadow Queen._

Ginny stood in the rain, a mass of watery blood at her feet as all sixteen of her assailants lay dead at her feet. Again, she looked up into the sky, letting the rain wash off her cloak of the blood strewn all over it. The scent would never leave, the sense never diminish. She was forever tainted by her sins, but she did not care. For her husband, for her family, she would murder her God, if need be.

_Hallelujah._

* * *

_AN: Sorry for the darker interlude, but it was necessary to explore Ginny's character a little more in depth. After all, all we've seen of her is indirect appearances, without actually going into why she tolerates Harry's behaviour, or how she feels about the Empire at all. Hopefully, this resolves those questions. Like Lion's Roar, this is meant as a prelude to the next chapter. - MB_


	25. Chapter XIX: The Empire's Blades

_AN: Longer chapter than usual to accommodate the scenes of both characters whose Interludes were posted previously. Also, just a reminder that this story will, in fact, end the Dark Wars series, although I may use it at a later date for another project I'm toying with. Enjoy - MB _

* * *

_Imperial Palace…_

The scene outside the Imperial palace, in the central island, was not as pleasant as it had been elsewhere. While part of the garrison had been saved by the arrival of the Texan Dismounted Lancers, the Death Eaters who had arrived at the southern island in a flanking attack had no opposition.

While the inhabitants were safely guarded in their bunkers, this meant that there was no populace to rise up against the invading Death Eaters, who marched in uniform towards the Imperial Palace in the centre island, using the massive suspension bridge that led to it as a route.

Unfortunately, destroying the bridge was out of the question, as it was the only thing that connected the Southern island to the central island. As such, if reinforcements were to be sent there, the quickest way was through the centre, and that couldn't be done without the bridge.

As such, the end of the bridge was being blockaded by the remaining garrison forces, all 900 in total. Unfortunately, while they were better armed and better entrenched than their 100 comrades elsewhere, they were outnumbered over ten to one.

One by one, the redcoat soldiers inspected and cleaned their rifles as the lookout regularly reported the advance of the Death Eaters. At the back of the barricade, several civilian volunteers were quickly organizing and distributing the ammunition. Towering, wooden crates of bullets and ME grenades were placed behind sturdy structures, in order to avoid the random spell that could blow the entire defence to kingdom come.

In the midst of the 900 men was Susan Bones, who had taken it upon herself to organize and lead the whole initiative. It wasn't that she didn't trust any of the other officers, some of which outranked her in fact, but rather that she saw this as the final stand she was looking for. The one moment where she could give her all, and still find her way back into Neville's waiting arms on the other side.

The pretty redhead had one pistol in hand as she pointed men to their positions with loud, barking shouts. The barricade itself had been her idea. The garrison had scrounged up whatever material they could find in order to build it. Carriages, benches, tables, door frames, bar stands—anything that looked remotely sturdy had been confiscated by her men and brought to bear in the defiant barricade that separated the Death Eaters from the Imperial Palace.

Amongst the 900 awaiting men were an additional 50 from the Imperial Guard. Dressed in their blood-red cloaks, imposing spears in hand, the Guards were to serve as a middle line. They would engage and battle any Death Eater who made it past the barricade, and considering their build and ability, Susan knew that any one of them would take five Death Eaters down with them.

It was a striking sight to behold, however. At the front, nearest to the barricade, the British redcoats jokingly cleaned their firearms with nary a dark thought in mind, it seemed. They seemed as lively as they would be in a mess hall, and they were not remiss in letting fly all sorts of humour. Even now, Susan could hear them throw around several crude jokes which made even _her_ blush.

However, a little further into the island were the Imperial Guards, who were diligently cleaning and sharpening their lances. Like Spartans of old, they acted laconically and rarely spoke, and only then in order to request a fellow Guard for sharpening tools or a piece of cloth. They meticulously prepared for combat, and their neutral expressions gave way to no emotion. They were the ultimate soldiers, and they knew it.

Then, at the very back, the civilians were hard at work making inventories of the ammunition, and distributing it accordingly. The bartender who had comforted her was the one leading the whole distribution process, his Irish descent having initially put off the British-born civilians. A quick reminder that it was his fight, too, however, quickly stifled all protests, and they were now efficiently running the ammunition distribution with little problems.

For her part, Susan was sitting against the wall fence of one of the privileged few houses that resided in Central Island. It belonged to the Prime Minister, who had remained at the Palace with the Queen, just in case. Further down the beige wall, Susan spotted a British redcoat and a civilian woman exchanging whispers in what seemed to Susan to be a very sweet thing.

It made her envious, in fact. Before Empire's Helm, she would have been the one exchanging sweet nothings with her boyfriend—Neville. But ever since that blotched operation—which she fully blamed on the now-defunct Order for having pushed it—she had been left alone in the world. Her entire family was gone—a report had confirmed her aunt's death a few months after the coup—and now the love of her life had left her too.

But she had promised not to take her own life. Not willingly, anyway. This battle was going to take care of that for her. There were many other competent officers here, so she didn't worry about leaving the garrison leaderless. She just wanted to slip into the blissful oblivion that was the after life, and there reunite with Neville.

Susan sighed deeply as she let her head fall backwards, gently hitting the wall behind her as she waited for the sentry to report the Death Eaters to be within firing range. She knew they had time, though. Apparation was strictly forbidden within Harrisburg, and wards prevented the use of this ability—and thus far, the Death Eaters had been unable to crack it. All of their landings had been through the use of transports.

Susan was so entrenched in her own depressed thoughts, however, that she did not notice someone plopping down beside her, cigarette quickly to find itself hanging from the man's mouth.

"What a day," sighed the man as he blew out smoke in a heady sigh.

Cracking open an eye, Susan smirked as she closed it once again. "Fancy seeing you here, Colonel Sharpe. I thought you were ill."

Richard Sharpe merely grinned at the welcome, despite coughing a few times. "Couldn't bear waiting for them to come to my home. Figured it'd be best to get this over with now," he mentioned before taking a drag. "Better to die on the field than on a bed."

"I didn't know it was that bad."

Another puff of smoke, followed by a cough. "Aye. Doctors reckon' it's terminal now."

"What was it again?"

"Tuberculosis."

"Shouldn't you not be here, then? Might infect the men."

"Bah. You know damn well everyone here's been vaccinated."

"So why not you?"

Silence. Another puff of smoke. "Never got around to it."

"Bullshit."

A grin. "Language, lass."

"Need I repeat myself?"

"Never felt the need," came the reply after a moment of silence. "Figured since the war would most likely do me in, what was the point of getting a shot?"

"It never crossed your mind that you might survive?"

"Nope."

"Wow, and I thought _Ernie_ was bad."

"Ouch, lass. That one stung."

"I call them as I see them."

"Touché."

Silence reigned for a minute as smoke rose from Sharpe's cigarette.

"Those things'll kill you."

A hearty laugh. "The Duke said the same thing. Five years ago."

"When?"

"Serpent Fortress. Right after we took it."

"Good times."

A nod. "Indeed they were."

Silence. "He was right, you know."

A shrug. "Eh. Between them and this damned disease, it's a bloody competition."

"Could die with some dignity if you lied down and let it kill you."

"No one dies with dignity."

"Hmm? How do you figure?"

"It's always ugly, and it's never pretty. Your body decays, and where once was a healthy human being is later a bunch of dust."

"That's kind of cynical."

"It's the truth, though. You only live with dignity. You can't die with it. Might as well go out with a bang, then."

"Heh…"

Another moment of silence.

"I know what you're planning to do."

"Eh?"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

Sharpe turned to face Susan with grim, serious eyes. "Don't let the bastards take you."

Susan looked back for a moment before turning away, uncomfortably. "What would you know?"

Sharpe shrugged as he turned his attention back to the troops before him and took another drag from his cigarette. "I know that suicide's a damn stupid thing to do."

"Says the man who wants to go out with a bang," she pointed out bitterly.

"It's not suicide if it's going to happen anyway. This way, I do it on my own terms," rebutted Sharpe. "What's your excuse?"

"Leave it alone, Sharpe. It's none of your business."

"Neville was a friend of mine too. It's sure as hell my business if his girl thinks about offing herself out of some idiotic desire to meet him in the afterlife."

"You wouldn't understand," Susan asserted blithely.

"I'm a widower with no kids left. My son's dead, and my daughter's missing. Hawke is dead, so is Neville, Wolfe's with the Duke, God knows where Wolf is, and I'm going to die alone from disease. I think I do understand."

m

Silence descended upon the pair as Susan refused to look at Sharpe, and the ruggedly handsome officer took another drag from his cigarette before letting it drop harmlessly to the floor. Barely lifting a foot, he squished the burning remains and promptly dug another one out from his coat and lit it up before taking another drag.

"Neville was my everything," Susan said eventually.

Sharpe nodded, eyes aimed skyward. "I know."

"How can I live knowing he doesn't?"

"I asked myself the same when Andie died," noted Sharpe. "Then, when Hawke died, it became worse. Ever since the coup, it'd been Hawke, Wolf, Wolfe, the Duke, and I. We were the closest of the officer corps. Then Hawke died. Wolf turned to alcohol, the Duke found his wife, Wolfe threw himself into his work, and I became ill."

"So you're dying because of Hawke?" asked Susan, incredulously.

Another puff of smoke escaped Sharpe's lips. "I'm dying because I was stupid and overconfident. I'm dying because I'm tired of seeing my friends die, or self-destruct."

"But, Sharpe…"

"Not much room left for the old guard, now that the Duke's got you kids helping him. Wolfe, Wolf, and I—we're old school. We've been around far longer than this war's been around. We had graduated long before the Duke did."

"But Sulu…and Admiral Staples!"

"They may look twice his age, but Sulu's only a year or two older, and Staples is three. I'm ten years older than the Duke, and Hawke was twelve."

Susan gaped incredulously at Sharpe. Sulu and Tybalt were practically _her_ age, then! And yet, both men seemed at least thirty in appearance! Admittedly, she'd never inquired about the men's age, seeing as how they were at the top of the chain of command, and she never questioned it. Still, it was quite the shock to know that the two men she trusted to lead the army were barely a few years older than her.

"Anyway…I've let my grief consume me, lass," digressed Sharpe. "Except, unlike Wolfe, Wolf, or the Duke, my grief turned material."

"The tuberculosis."

Sharpe nodded. "Aye. It's God's way of giving me the release I want. It's just not sudden enough for me. I don't want to die in some bed—I want to go with my comrades around me."

"What's that got to do with me?"

Sharpe puffed out some smoke as he shrugged. "You feel like nothing's left for you. You're wrong," he asserted, much to her outrage. "You've got the Duke relying on you. He's already lost Neville. If he loses you, that's another of the Hogwarts crew he fails. He can't take that. Not even with his wife present."

"How do you know this?" asked Susan shrewdly.

Sharpe laughed hollowly. "Fight alongside a man for five years and you'll know him inside out. The Duke's got one mad messiah complex. He feels the need to rescue and protect everyone he loves, but his rational side keeps getting in the way and he accepts loss," explained Sharpe. "But not all. There's a few losses that would kill him if they happened. Losing his friends from Hogwarts is one of those things."

"Harry isn't that weak…" protested Susan, but it sounded hollow even to her ears.

"Yes he is," asserted Sharpe strongly, causing him to cough heavily. "The Duke is tainted. He's had the Darkness touch him on a personal level. He's fought it, and killed it, but it still left a scar."

"What are you talking about?" asked Susan, bewildered.

"The Duke's been fighting his own demons for a long time," said Sharpe cryptically. He then took a drag, puffed some smoke, then gave Susan a sidelong, shrewd glance. "He's never told you guys about India, has he?"

Susan shook his head.

Sharpe chuckled bitterly. "Figures he wouldn't," he muttered. "That's when I met him. I was a Sergeant back then. Got caught up in this nasty little fight with the local Dark Lord wannabe. Ended up pretty bad," he explained. "Mad bugger let loose something he shouldn't have. Something he couldn't understand or control."

"What?" asked Susan in a near whisper.

"_Venati_" whispered Sharpe, as his own face paled at the thought of the horrible creatures. "Dark…_things_. Born out of the darkness of men's hearts. Vile, brilliant predators."

"What happened?"

"Damned things tore us apart. All of our officers were dead within minutes, except for the Duke. He, along with the rest of us who were smart enough to think, ran away from the field. Just in time, too. Damned things turned against their masters and tore _them_ apart too."

Susan could only look on in horror. Why hadn't Harry told her and Neville about this? For that matter, she didn't think _Ginny_ knew about this, and she was his bloody _wife_.

"The Duke'll never tell anyone," Sharpe then said, as if reading her mind. "He can't. To him, it was the most vulnerable he'd ever been in his life—when he was closest to losing everything. He actually died for a few minutes at one point. We only barely brought him back."

Susan gasped at this. Harry had actually _died_ at some point? And she'd never known?

Sharpe chuckled now. "He's lucky. He got to actually see the other side for a few minutes before we brought him back. But he'll never tell anyone any of this. He's the Iron Duke, after all. He's a legend—a symbol now. If people actually thought he was mortal, why—it'd cripple morale!"

It was an extremely pragmatic statement, but one that rang true with Susan. Even as she tried to logically disassemble the argument in order to reason with herself that Harry should have shared his past in India, she couldn't help but end up rationalizing in _favour_ of keeping it secret.

Half an hour later, as she wandered throughout the throngs of troops waiting for action, she still couldn't help but realize how true Sharpe's observations were. Most the men defending the barricade only did so because they believed in the unbreakable, the unshakeable myth of the Iron Duke—the Saviour of the Empire, the Restorer of the Throne. They did not see Harry, the man. They saw the great hero on horseback that led his men towards the successful capture of Serpent Fortress—the man who captured Nova Scotia and British Columbia from the grasp of the Americans and Death Eaters. They saw the hero of Norfolk, the greatest strategist and leader of their time.

To them, Harry had transcended mortality. He was the living symbol of the Empire's military might, and without him, the Armies of the Empire would crumble. It did not matter that a new monarch was crowned—she had not yet come into her full potential. The men saw her as a symbol of their beloved empire, of course, but on a lesser scale than the heroic, loyalist Iron Duke.

Heroes had gathered around him like flies, as well. Had not Hawke, the Hero of Salt Lake City, sworn his allegiance to the Duke? Did General Sulu and Admiral Staples not pledge their forces to him when the American offensive was planned?

Even as the alarm was sounded, prompting every man to rush to his post at the barricade, Susan could not help but realize the magnitude of her friend's impact on the survival of the Empire. On her survival. If she meant as much as Neville did to him, then her loss would devastate him. She couldn't allow that!

With that thought in mind, Susan set her jaw firmly and, drawing her sabre, went to the front lines of the barricade, a determined look on her face as she passed by the pleased-looking Sharpe and, one foot on the ground and another on the barricade wall itself, she turned to the troops.

"Courage, lads!" she cried out. "Courage! Today, the eyes of the world are on you! Let the vermin before us fall to our British steel and iron bullets! Let them see the wrath of British men and women!"

Cheers rang out throughout the defenders as the Death Eaters came slightly closer to the barricade.

"Though the Duke is not with us today, we shall make him proud!" she continued through the cheers, merely intensifying them. "We shall beat back the enemy, with every bit of our souls! Let no Death Eater survive this day and be able to sleep well! Let us give them such a beating, that they shall have nightmares, forevermore!"

The cheers were now deafening as the soldiers pumped their weapons up and down into the air, chanting "Bones! Bones! Bones! Bones!"

Giving them a grin, Susan brought up a pistol and cocked it with her thumb. Giving them an encouraging wave, she turned her body towards the barricade. "To the barricade! To your posts! And fight, brave men and women of the Empire! Fight! For our past, for our present, and for our future! _FIGHT!_"

With a last, deafening roar of a cheer, the British redcoats took to the barricade like avenging angels. Unlike their compatriots under William Black, the barricade's fire here was uneven and sporadic as every man shot at will. They had not the luxury of such disciplined tactics, and were fighting every inch of the bridge as the Death Eaters advanced, their superior numbers giving them a classic advantage over the defenders.

With every step, over twenty Death Eaters fell flat onto the ground. By their lack of screaming, the defenders knew them to be Terracotta soldiers, which meant that the likelihood of breaking their formation was impossible. As such, it now resided in the unlikelihood that they could kill them all before they reached the barricade.

Their predictions turned out true. Slowly, the Death Eaters readily advanced closer to the barricade, and it was unlikely that they would be able to stop them. As such, giving the advancing hordes of black-robed murderers advance, Susan turned towards her men and gave a single order.

"CHARGE BAYONETS!"

"Fall back."

Susan stumbled on herself as the clear-cut order sliced through her own. Turning to shout at the man who'd _dared_ to contradict her, she felt her jaw drop slightly and her knees turn weak as she saw the speaker. Falling to her knees, she stared in shock as the speaker passed right by her, a sword in hand, pointed down. It was an officer's sabre, and it looked new. The hilt looked like pure gold, and the steel shined brightly in the sun. The redcoat the man wore was torn and dirty. It had bloody splotches all over the place. His white trousers were in no better condition, and his overall appearance screamed one of having fought for a long time. The men behind him who were following him seemed in no better condition.

And yet, the defenders were certain that the new arrivals would outmatch them all.

The man glanced around once more before frowning. "I said…" he began, taking a deep breath. "_FALL BACK!_"

Jolted into action, the defenders quickly obeyed and pulled back from the barricade, the soldiers pouring past the man and his reinforcements as the Death Eaters began to climb over the barricade. For her part, Susan was dragged away by two soldiers who'd taken her arms around their necks and were pulling her away.

Now left facing the Death Eaters only with his men, the man smiled as he flexed his sword arm a bit. His comrades were out of his way now, and he and his men could now let loose without fear of hurting one of their own. As the Death Eaters drew nearer, the entire scene was absolutely silent, but for the marching noise of the Death Eaters' boots.

Finally, the man rose his sword so that it pointed right at the incoming hordes. The action seemed to confuse the attackers, for the column stopped, and the man could feel the confusion. For, despite being Terracotta soldiers, they were not programmed to understand what he was doing. Was he retreating? If so, why had he stayed behind with fewer men than before? It just made no sense.

A predatory smile graced the man's rugged features now. "Turn and leave," he ordered imperiously.

For a moment, silence descended upon the Death Eaters, but a single laugh soon broke through the confused silence. Pushing his way out of the throng, one Death Eater sneered at the defiant man, which meant, to the defenders, that he was the column's local controller.

"Who do you think you are?" asked the Death Eater tauntingly. "How can you imagine to stop the infinite forces of the Death Eaters with your puny numbers?"

At the man's silence, the Death Eater sneered a bit more before opening his mouth to continue, but his eyes widened as he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his neck, before nothingness.

The redcoat officer's face was completely neutral as the Death Eater's body fell to the ground limply, its head rolling in a separate direction. As the Death Eater columns suddenly sprang forward, the man grinned wildly.

"I am the Empire's Blade."

A flash of steel, and the first line of Death Eaters crumpled to the ground, stunning the rest. Meanwhile, the man kept his wild grin in place. Behind him, the rest of his reinforcements were readying themselves for battle, too.

"And as long as there lies a breath within me, I shall cut down all of its enemies."

* * *

_Potter Manor…_

The first indication of an attack came when the alarms began blaring throughout the entire manor. Then came the explosion as the front, oak double doors exploded into the interior of the anteroom. Next came the swarm of invaders, but the next thing threw many of them off guard.

A violin.

A very beautiful violin, to be precise, by the sounds of it. Playing throughout the air, it seemed to sing a heartrending ballad of sorrow and love throughout the manor, to the invader's utter confusion. After all, they were more used to screams of terror and panic, not violin music.

What seemed to confuse them most, however, was the fact that the music came from, well…_everywhere_. The vase on the nearby wooden desk, the glass in the windows, the very cutlery that seemed to be set out in the dining room for an apparently very lonesome dinner—all of it seemed to radiate the music that was slowly haunting the very minds of the invaders.

And that's when the singing started.

Slowly, the invaders, one by one, began to notice the words being sung in an angelic voice in accompaniment to the music that surrounded them. At first, it was more of a whisper, but gradually, it rose to very discernable levels, until they could hear the voice singing as if the singer was right by their ear.

_What can you see?_

_Across that sky_

_The wind passes by_

_The clouds are whimsical_

The Death Eaters seemed utterly confused now, as they spread around the foyer, trying to find the hidden singer that was tormenting them with her song. It was not unpleasant, by any means, but it certainly instilled a sense of panic in the human Death Eaters as they realized that their foe knew exactly where they were, and was simply toying with them.

_What's waiting?_

_At the edge of this world_

_Hey, I can hear_

_A song of joy_

Fanning out so that they even climbed the two circular staircases in the foyer, the Death Eaters began to spread throughout the mansion, slowly taking in the majesty of the Potter home. No room seemed to be locked, and yet the invaders could find not a single soul in the entire home, despite the obvious singing still going on.

_Let's search for a future_

_That no one knows about_

_Ahead of the limit, a new road_

_Will certainly open up_

_I search for a you_

_That even you don't know about_

_Pain is hidden in the view of your downcast face from the side…_

Hidden from their sight, the singer kept her sorrowful melody, her violin accompanying her dulcet tones as she entertained the men who had invaded her home. Sitting in front of her, completely oblivious to the happenings in her home, sat a young child, a little girl no older than five years of age. She seemed happily entranced by the music flowing from both the beautiful smile on the woman's face, and the wooden instrument at her chin.

The girl was happy as she swayed slightly at the music, which she had heard before. The girl's mother had composed it for her husband, the girl's father. He had never had the pleasure to hear it, but the girl knew that one day, one day he would.

The woman had, after all, placed her entire soul into it. She had slaved over years composing the music, and writing out the lyrics. She had poured her everything in this one musical statement of her feelings to her husband, who had slowly grown more reclusive as a result of his self-hatred for the darkness within him.

The same darkness that was slowly growing within her as well.

_I will take you… take you as…you…are._

The singing here slowly died out as the violin took over, apparently giving the finishing touches to the song. As the little girl began clapping, the woman smiled happily before turning her head slightly in the direction of the multitude of monitors behind her. A dark smile overcame her happy one, though the little girl failed to notice it, as she woman suddenly raised her violin bow straight into the air and, shutting her eyes, concentrated on the objective at hand.

The woman's flowing dress began to slowly take life as an unseen wind began to twirl around her. Above her head, the bow began to glow white, starting with a dim light, before slowly growing into a blinding light.

* * *

Elsewhere, the soldiers at the secondary barricade on the island watched nervously as Potter Manor was stormed by the Death Eaters. It was odd, to them, that the secondary barricade had been arbitrarily pushed back this far in the island, allowing the Death Eaters to ransack a few of the more prestigious houses on the Central Island. They could tell that their reinforcements were doing well, but a few of the Death Eaters had managed to get through, and were now gleefully going to work destroying the homes around them.

"I don't get it," mumbled one of the privates at the barricade, as he watched the Death Eaters go into the seat of the Potter Family. "Why let them do that? Why can't we just go out there and kill those bastards!"

Mumblings of agreement resonated throughout the ranks as they helplessly watched the Death Eaters file into the home of their commander. One dissenting voice, however, was heard.

"Don't be ridiculous," chastised the voice. Turning around to meet their dissenter, the soldiers were surprised to see a wounded Sharpe leaning against a wall, half of his face covered in blood, with a massive gash running vertically along the left side of his body, a smoking cigarette in hand. "You're all best kept safe here."

"Colonel Sharpe, sir!" cried one of the soldiers. "You should be at the infirmary!"

Sharpe spat out some blood to the side in derision of the man's comment. "Don't be absurd, private," he chastised the man. "I'm exactly where I should be. At my post."

As several more of the soldiers seemed ready to protest this, one of them suddenly burst out with an entirely different demand in mind.

"Why?" demanded the soldier who'd first voiced his disagreement to letting the Death Eaters ransack the homes on either side of the street. "Why can't we go out there and kill those bastards?!"

Sharpe observed the man quietly with his remaining eye, taking a long drag of his cigarette as he did so. "Boy," he started, predictably riling up the soldier in front of him. "Do you know who lives at that mansion?"

"The Potters, of course! Everyone knows that!" snapped the soldier, who was quickly forgetting his place before a superior officer, even as his comrades tried to defuse the situation.

"And do you think that the Potters need protecting, boy?" asked Sharpe then.

"Of course!!"

Sharpe's nonchalant look was quickly replaced by a dark, knowing smile. "You're new, aren't you, boy?"

One of the other soldiers quickly stepped in between the two. "Please, sir, forgive our comrade. He just joined the Service a few days ago…"

Sharpe chuckled. "Hehe…don't worry, private. I'm a dying man. There won't be any penalties I can give that I can later enforce," he assured the concerned private.

The soldiers in question looked at each other concernedly at the Colonel's words, but were quickly drawn back to him when they saw him pointing his cigarette at the loud-mouthed private.

"A word of advice from a dying man, though, boy," he told the private with a feral grin. "The Potters didn't reach the top because of their wealth or influence…"

* * *

From the tip of the bow, strings suddenly seemed to materialize at its tip, extending seemingly into the very darkness of the roof's shadow. All the while, the same music as she had been playing seemed to gradually encompass the room, until it was as if she was singing it herself, despite it obviously not being true.

Suddenly, the woman gave another dark smile at the floor, eyes still shut from concentrating, and, whispering a single word, made a pulling motion with her bow hand, bringing it down once again. All at once, the strings seemed to tighten, the blinding light seemed to vanish, and the wind stopped.

_Requiem_

Squealing in delight, the little girl clapped at what she thought was a magic trick her mother had just pulled off. At this, the woman merely smiled, and offered to play another song, which the little girl accepted enthusiastically.

And so, bow on string, the woman played her daughter another song, this one decidedly less sorrowful, though no less romantic.

And, throughout Potter Manor, in nearly every room but the Conservatory of Knowledge, blood dripped from the very walls. In nearly every corridor, in every room, on every balcony, the red liquid seemed to have repainted the entire mansion.

Lying in heaps, the pieces of the torn Death Eaters lay as a grim testament to the power of the female fiddler, who happily entertained her little daughter, without any remorse at the action she had just committed.

And, in every spot where pieces of bodies lay, eerie, shining, razor-sharp wires could be seen, tightly strung out, blood dripping from their very fibers.

* * *

"…but because even the weakest one of them is a _monster_."

The soldiers watched in horror as some of the windows of Potter Manor suddenly became stained with blood from the inside, all of them simultaneously.

That day, there were no survivors of the attack on Potter Manor.

* * *

_Aboard the HMIS Invincible…_

The battle between the four titanic battleships of the Empire and the Death Eaters raged on.

Bullets soared through the air, their trajectory causing a screaming sound as they tore through the skies towards their targets. Dragons soared between the two fleets and engaged in battle with the Imperial Lambda Fighters. Metal met scale and skin as both sides incurred heavy damage to their respective fighter screens.

And yet, the Imperial fleet, vastly outnumbered right now, seemed to be intact. Not a single of the _Invincible_-class battleships had been taken down yet, and all four were performing beyond expectations. In fact, they were beating back the Armada, which caused widespread shock within the Imperial crewmen, who had signed up on the mission thinking it a suicide run. Instead, they were holding their own, and even winning slightly.

Their commanding officer, however, had not stopped smiling since the beginning of the battle. Standing atop a slightly elevated platform near the windows, Harry Potter had his hands clasped behind his back, his red uniform practically shining in the sunlight. Only those closest to him could see it, but it was widely known now on the deck that the man was had a predatory, tight-lipped smile that had not left his face since he had first taken command of the _Invincible_ from its previous captain, acting Captain McNamara.

Suddenly, Harry's smile seemed to soften, however, as if a tender memory had crossed his mind. His hands unconsciously went to his neck, where a thin, golden chain held up a simple cross. A crimson cross, made by her.

St. George's Cross.

"Darling…" he whispered, before letting a pleased smile cross his features as his fingers brushed against the crimson cross at his neck. Thrusting out a hand towards McNamara to his left, Harry's ferocious smile returned in full force.

"Step twenty-five is complete. Commence Steps twenty-six through twenty-eight," he ordered.

The captain gave a small bow at the order. "Commencing steps twenty-six through twenty-eight. Aye, aye, sir."

* * *

_Post-AN: Do not own the lyrics of the song Ginny played. It belongs to talented Japanese artist Itou Kanako, and the original title of the piece is called "Take You As You Are." There exists a violin-only version of the melody, and I've had the pleasure of hearing it, but have never found its commercially single self, to my great chagrin._


	26. Chapter XX: Inhuman

_AN: As you'll notice in this chapter, Remus and Sirius will appear a little...OOC. There's a reason for this. However, I may or may not decide to explore why in an Interlude a little later. Regardless, the main point of this chapter is to give a few more hints as to what's been done to the Potters and their closest associates that gave them the power to do the things they've done. Cheers, - MB._

* * *

_Harrisburg…_

Nymphadora Tonks was simply not used to war.

Certainly, the pretty Auror had seen battle before. After all, she was an Auror, and as such was used to chasing down and battling Dark Wizards. What she was not used to, however, was the absolute devastation caused by total war.

Even as she recalled the stories of the First War against Voldemort, the images spoken thereof and the ones she was witnessing right now simply did not compare. The Dark Wars, in her mind, were far more devastating than the First War, and it terrified her.

No, more than that, it shook her to her very core.

In front of her, all throughout the wide streets, the former Order of the Phoenix was battling with the legions of Death Eaters that were attempting to push through the British lines.

There were no British forces on Island 5, unfortunately. It had taken practically everything the British garrison had to defend the other six islands, and nearly everyone had been recalled to defend the Central Island.

Still, the Order had answered Dumbledore's call (interestingly enough, as they had all voted to dissolve it _because_ of his previous actions) to defend the Imperial Capital, and as such, were now fighting for their very lives as they attempted to merely survive against the apparently infinite horde of masked men in black robes.

Tonks quickly ducked as a Severing Curse flew over her head, and fired one right back, disregarding Dumbledore's orders to use non-lethal spells. It was a silly order, in her opinion. After all, this wasn't the same as before 1994, when she had fought to incarcerate the damn buggers. No, here, she fought to save her own skin, and that of her friends, all of whom were equally fighting.

To her left, she could see Ron Weasley fighting off two Death Eaters, and Kingsley Shacklebolt subduing one. Further down their makeshift line was Hermione Granger, who seemed to be barely hanging on against three more, while Arthur and Molly Weasley, patriarch and matriarch of the family, fought back-to-back against at least five.

To her right, she could see Frank Longbottom and Mad-Eye Moody working off each other in order to maximize their kills—a skill that required years of practice between partners. That the two were able to do so with barely two years of practice was amazing, but spoke volumes of their determination. Further down, more of the Auror members of the ex-Order were also fighting with their all.

Still, Tonks realized, the sides weren't the problem. The problem, she could clearly see, was what was in front of her.

Row after row of Death Eaters lay waiting for their chance, having presumably stopped their column to humour the defenders' desire to fight, rather than simply steamrollered over them. She knew what that meant, though.

It meant there was no chance for the ex-Order to win this battle, and the enemy knew it, which was why they were mocking them with this farce of a skirmish. If the soldiers were here in their stead, the Death Eaters would never have stopped and taken their sweet time to bulldoze right through. The soldiers were too dangerous for that. Aurors and common wizards, however, were no problem.

"This isn't going well," hissed Draco Malfoy further down the line, mirroring Tonks' own thoughts. The young blonde was currently finishing off one of his opponents with a slash to the neck. He too had completely disregarded the standing order from Dumbledore to use non-lethal spells. For that matter, so had most of the rest of their fighters.

"Agreed," came the sullen response from the young man's mentor, Severus Snape, who had finished off two more by severing their heads with a Sectumsempra curse, a nasty spell he had invented on his own.

"Soldiers aren't coming," interjected Ron as he jumped backwards and to the sides to avoid getting hit by the myriad of spells coming his way. "We're all that's left between them, and the bridges."

It was little comfort to Tonks, who had begun to use her shape-shifting skills to modify her body to help her fight better. One minute she had a normal, female body, the next her hand was enlarged into a massive male fist, which would crash into the Death Eater's guts, followed by an Explosion hex to the back of the enemy's skull.

"We're not enough," she called out amongst the chattering. "Either we fall back, or we're done for!"

"Dumbledore promised reinforcements!" barked Moody as he bent over, allowing Frank to roll over his back and thus avoid getting cursed, while firing a spell right into a Death Eater's face. "Manipulative, he may be, but he'd never let us all die!"

Frank lodged a fist into a Death Eater's gut before subsequently firing a Death Curse at the man's exposed back. "Agreed," was all the scarred veteran Auror said.

"_VALLUM!_" a white shield immediately appeared in front of Hermione's slender figure (her own creation—an upgrade of the Protego shield) as she brought up her arms to protect her face from the dust resulting from the impact of the Severing curse and her shield. Turning to the others, she nodded. "We need to buy Dumbledore more time!"

Tonks smiled weakly at that as she gazed at the horde of Death Eaters before her, still waiting for their own chance.

'_Sure, you say that…'_ she thought, _'but how do you __do__ it, though?'_

The moment of thinking, however, cost Tonks dearly. Taking advantage of her momentary distraction, one of the inanimate Death Eaters from the rows waiting suddenly lunged forward and tackled her backwards. Though the Death Eater remained on his feet, Tonks fell onto her back, hard.

"Sonuva…"

She barely had time to say that fraction of a word before the Death Eater was upon her again, this time punching and kicking away at her, which took her completely off guard, as she was used to duelling Death Eaters with spells, not physical combat!

"Tonks!" yelled Ron, who had noticed the Metamorphmagi getting pounded by her unknown assailant. The redhead himself, however, had little choice but to ignore the combat, as his own distraction had caused the Death Eaters he was fighting to nearly land a few blows.

All of her companions were similarly occupied, and those who tried to get closer found their way barred by more Death Eaters, who came charging out of their own lines.

The Death Eater came at Tonks with a ferocity she was taken aback with. It was as if her aggressor had a personal grudge against her, and she couldn't understand why as he beat at her relentlessly.

"Stup—" she tried to cast, but was rapidly silenced by a punch to the stomach.

"Expe—" Again, she was cut off as her attacker brought up his lower palm and uppercut her in the jaw.

Whoever she was fighting, Tonks knew was a pro. He or she had obviously had physical combat experience, and he or she was beating her down like a rag doll. She could find no openings in her attacker's stance, nor in his blows. There was no chance to duck, for the moment she tried, another fist would come up from out of nowhere.

What she couldn't understand, however, was the ferocity with which she was being assaulted. It was as if her assailant saw her very existence as insulting, and was trying to erase her from the fabric of reality.

As Tonks was hammered away at by her attacker, she could feel her consciousness slip steadily out of her grasp, as well as a few bones break, causing shooting pains to strike her regularly. Even as her limp body arched into the air from a final hit from her attacker, she began to realize the absolute inescapability of her fate. She was going to die.

Tonks was in the middle of making her peace with her maker, her attacker's fist coming up for a final blow to her spine, when she suddenly felt herself jerked to the side.

Barely registering what had just happened, Tonks cleared her vision by shaking her head, only to find herself even more flabbergasted by what she now saw.

Kneeling in the dirt of the road, two long indentures streaking away from where his shoes were, Remus Lupin was holding her in his arms, a protective look on his face as he regarded the Death Eater who had attacked Tonks. Amber eyes flared with primal fury as the sandy-haired werewolf judged the Death Eater as a predator would his prey.

"Are you alright?" asked Remus suddenly, startling the bubblegum pink-haired Auror.

"F-Fine," she croaked out, half out of the pain that was now shooting throughout her body, and half due to the awe she felt at the heroic disposition of her rescuer.

Turning his head slightly, Remus' eyes sought out Ron Weasley, who had just finished beating off his attackers, having used their momentary distraction at Remus' arrival to his advantage.

"Weasley," barked the fair-haired werewolf. "I entrust her to you."

Ron silently nodded as he gently took Tonks into his arms, his taller and more muscular physique letting him hold her in a bridal position without much trouble.

Remus, for his part, was now back on his feet and facing the Death Eater who had attacked Tonks. The werewolf's hands were at his sides, contracting into fists and then releasing, his bones resonating as they cracked.

For his (or her) part, the Death Eater who had attacked Tonks seemed unimpressed by the humbly dressed werewolf before him.

"You think too highly of yourself, Remus Lupin," came a grating, male voice from behind the man's mask. "To think you can take me on one-on-one is pure madness!"

Remus gave a fierce grin. "Not the first man I've killed who's said that," he noted. "Perhaps it is _you_ who is overconfident, Fenrir," he remarked tauntingly.

A low, guttural growl emerged from behind the ivory mask of the Death Eater as the man—or rather, werewolf—in question took off his mask and revealed the grey-bearded, wild figure of Fenrir Greyback, the feared Death Eater werewolf.

To the side, Ron Weasley could be heard cussing his mind out as he realized exactly why they had been having such trouble, even against common Death Eaters.

"_No bloody wonder!_" cried out the redhead. "_They're sodding werewolves!_"

Ignoring the subsequent indignant cry of "Ron!" from Hermione, Remus kept his eyes on Greyback, who was snarling in his direction.

"You've grown a backbone, pup" snarled Greyback. "Last I remember you, you were a snivelling little schoolboy, trying to his hide his big bad secret," he mocked.

Remus' eyes narrowed at that jab. "Last I remember you, Greyback, you were a monster. Good to see you're as predictable as ever," he threw back.

Another snarl erupted from Greyback. "Enough chit-chat, pup!" he barked. "Either fight me or get out of my way! But don't think you alone can stop us!"

Remus' fierce grin came back in full force now, something which momentarily gave pause to Greyback's confidence. After all, why would the fair-haired werewolf look so confident, despite being outnumbered over 1000 to 1?

Greyback watched as Remus raised a hand in the air, absolutely confused as to what the fair-haired werewolf was doing. He seemed to be…signalling someone?

Almost immediately after the feared Death Eater made that connection, he heard numerous screams erupt from within his detachment of Death Eaters. Spinning around on his heel, the werewolf watched in horror as numerous men erupted from within the houses on either side and tore apart his flanks.

What surprised him most, however, was the fact that they, like him, were werewolves as well. While human in appearance, that unnatural strength, and their wild eyes gave him no doubt that they were kinmen.

"Impossible!" he cried out. "Why are werewolves working for the Muggles?" he demanded rhetorically.

"Freedom," came the whispered reply next to his ear, clueing in the werewolf that Remus was right behind him. Too little, too late, however, as Greyback was sent hurtling through the air as Remus' fist crashed into his back.

Adopting a more arrogant stance, hands on his hips, Remus gave the downed werewolf a confident smirk. This infuriated Greyback, who launched himself at Remus, fist first. Sidestepping the blow, Remus' face turned serious as his hand shot out and grabbed Greyback's wrist, his left leg then shooting up to knee the older werewolf in the stomach.

Greyback went down reeling from the blow, spewing vomit as he went to his knees, gasping for air. He had little time to recuperate, however, as Remus' foot shot up and kicked him in the face, back-flipping Greyback onto his back.

The older werewolf snarled in fury as he jumped back onto his feet, and once again threw himself at Remus, completely lacking in any form of strategy—instigated by simple, pure rage.

Using Greyback's own thoughtlessness, Remus ducked the incoming punch low, crouching to the ground, before springing back up, fist first, into Greyback's chin, upper-cutting the grey-haired werewolf in the chin with an open-palmed devastating blow.

Greyback's unfocused eyes gazed up into the air, full of shock, as he realized that Remus was winning over him without much effort. The very notion seemed impossible, but there it was. He had been now struck three times, and had not landed a single punch, every time falling for the younger werewolf's superior reasoning and emotional control.

As he felt himself land onto an open hand, he felt his fear increase ten-fold as he realized that Remus had not once launched a spell yet, and yet Greyback had judged the younger werewolf as a simple wizard trying to get rid of the Lupine Curse. Obviously, he was doing so no longer, and Greyback finally began to fear for his own mortality as he felt the hand keeping him up by his back begin to get warmer.

"_The earthen wall trembles, the sky god thunders…_" recited the voice of Remus Lupin beneath him, instantly sending up a chill of fear and panic through Greyback. "_The child wails, the man trembles…"_

"_Ars Nova Undetricensim!" _he shouted, the words resonating throughout the island. "_Mors…Fulminis!_"

Greyback found himself incapable of screaming as his throat closed up from the pain of having over 300,000 volts course through his body. His body was a mere shadow within the luminescent electric storm that ravaged his body, his limbs jerking spasmodically around as Remus kept a firm grip on the older werewolf's back.

As the Order wizards looked on in horror, Remus held up the violently convulsing body of Fenrir Greyback, smoke emanating from his rapidly cooking flesh, as the most feared werewolf alive was being replaced by his killer, who was dispassionately dispatching the man who had turned him into a werewolf.

All around them, similarly taking care of their foes, the rest of the 101st Regiment of Foot, the "Werewolves," used every ability they had to eliminate the Death Eaters, sometimes using their super-human strength, while at other times using the wandless spells that had been taught to them by Loyalist wizards.

Within mere moments, the vanguard of Fenrir Greyback's flanking attack had been decimated. Their leader was dead, his carbonized carcass still held up by Remus, who was looking at the ex-Order wizards with complete indifference to their horror, and the entire vanguard (nearly 300 men and women) was dead. Undoubtedly, more of them would be on their way, but for now, the ex-Order had been given a reprieve.

Throwing down the charred corpse of Fenrir Greyback, Remus spoke to the ex-Order now. "Orders from above. Retreat to the Royal Palace. We will be taking care of this flank," he told them, nudging his head in the direction of his werewolves as he mentioned them.

Tonks, who had watched in utter awe at her rescuer's ability, was snapped out her reverie as she saw Remus turn and begin to leave to rejoin his men.

"Wait!" she cried, halting the werewolf in his tracks. As Remus turned to face her, his eyes alight with curiosity…and perhaps something else, she spoke up. "W-Why…why do you fight for the Empire?" she asked. "I-I thought the D-Death Eaters had all the w-werewolves…"

Stunning his audience, most of whom were now horrified at the werewolf commander before them, Remus laughed. It was not an evil laugh, either; it was a simple, humour-filled laugh that spoke volumes of how truly amused he was by the question.

Winking at Tonks and giving her a grin (both of which made the Metamorphmagi blush), Remus explained, "We are free men and women. We have our rights recognized. We are protected by law against discrimination, and we protect the Empire from its enemies," he told Tonks. "We…are the Hundred-and-first Imperial Regiment of Foot, the 'Werewolves'. At your service."

Tonks blushed at Remus' gallant introduction, making the werewolf grin, showing that apart from slightly sharper-than-normal incisors, there was nothing inhuman-looking about him. "Now, please, head off towards the palace. The nursing station there will look after your wounds," he urged them, prompting the wizards to resume their running trek towards the palace, leaving Remus behind, which suited the fair-haired werewolf just fine, since this meant less witnesses to what they were about to commit. He could hear the footsteps of the oncoming enemy reinforcements clearly now.

"You're late," Remus suddenly said, a knowing smile creeping onto his face.

Leaning back onto the wall of a nearby house, Sirius Black, dressed in his typical three-piece suit, gave him a dismissive wave. "You're the one who's running behind schedule, Remus," he told his companion as he pushed himself off and straightened up, hands in his pockets. "Always showing off to the girls. I swear—working for the Empire brought out the womanizer in you."

Remus laughed. "Yes, well, it _does _seem that our personalities switched when we joined up, doesn't it?" he agreed. "I lightened up, you became more responsible."

Sirius snorted. "Right. Whatever," he said dismissively, before looking at the hordes of Death Eaters that Remus' werewolves were dispatching. "Better finish up, then."

Remus nodded. "Joachim in place?"

Sirius nodded once. "Been there for a while, too."

Remus grinned now. "Excellent. How do you want to do this?" he asked, walking towards the fighting. Sirius gave his friend a dark smile before accompanying him, twirling his wand in his fingers. Amazingly, it slowly shifted in shape into a dagger.

"Authorization for lifting power restriction levels has been granted," he told Remus as he stored the dagger in his coat. "Harry's decided that enough is enough. He wants this over with _now_."

Remus gave a fierce smile as he slammed his fists together. From the sound of it, if there had been a skull in the middle, it would have become dust from the impact. "Excellent."

"Let's go _wild_."

Sirius didn't even blink as Remus disappeared from his side, a single, fine line of dust kicking up from the ground all the indication that his partner had charged the melee going on in front of them. Sirius sighed before shaking his head tolerantly. "Always in such a rush," he mumbled as he walked towards the fighting.

A few steps in, he stopped. Not even bothering to look around him, he addressed the Death Eaters he knew were surrounding him. From the feel of them, they were the real deal—not Terracotta replicas. "You mind telling me what you want?" he asked serenely. "I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"You're not a werewolf," observed one of the Death Eaters, although it sounded more like a question than an observation to Sirius.

Sirius' gaze flickered to the man for an instant before he closed his eyes, adopting a totally serene attitude. "That's right," he replied easily, hands still in his pockets. He hadn't even bothered to put up a fighting stance.

Sirius could feel the smiles being formed on the faces of his aggressors. He didn't know what was more asphyxiating—the feel of their relief, or the knowledge that they were about to make a huge mistake. Either way, he knew exactly what was going to happen.

"Then you'll be the first to die!" yelled the Death Eater, whipping his wand towards Sirius, a spell fast on his lips. "_Diffindo!_"

The spell raced towards Sirius, the bolt of cutting energy arched in order to slice as much as possible. Accompanying it were the five other spells the Death Eater's comrades had also launched at Sirius, all undoubtedly lethal. Sirius, however, did the most curious thing in response—he curled his lips into a disappointed sneer.

"Tsk."

Before their very eyes, Sirius disappeared in a flash, only to come back into their vision when one of the Death Eaters screamed, blood surging out violently from a wound he had received along his back. The Death Eaters turned their heads to see Sirius standing there, a smallish dagger in hand, looking for all the world completely bored.

The lead Death Eater whipped his wand towards Sirius again, this time silently casting another cutting hex at the dark haired wizard, his companions following suit quickly after.

Again, just as the spells were about to end his life, Sirius disappeared, reappearing behind the Death Eater opposite his previous victim. This time, the lead Death Eater had been on alert, and upon hearing the blade begin to tear his comrade's flesh, he turned and shot another hex. Sirius, however, didn't seem surprised at all, and instead stopped his stabbing arm midway (to the utter pain of his victim) and instead pulled the man in front of the curse, allowing the cutting hex to slice right into his face. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

Sirius again disappeared, this time not allowing the Death Eaters time to fire hexes at him. Almost immediately, they started looking around them, constantly in motion so Sirius wouldn't have the chance to sneak up on them.

"Futile."

Another scream pierced the area as another Death Eater met his end at the hands of Sirius Black. The three remaining Death Eaters, however, had no time to react, as Sirius again disappeared and reappeared right behind and above his next victim, spinning in mid-air to land a round-house kick into his victim's left temple. A sickening crack could be heard clearly as Sirius' foot shattered the man's skull. Again, just as the Death Eaters were about to react, Sirius disappeared, reappearing in a crouching position before his next victim. Instantly lashing out with his arm, he caught the man's jaw with his palm and forced the head to snap up so quickly and violently that the man's neck broke, killing the man instantly.

Only the Death Eater leader was left, his wand arm shaking violently as he screamed, fell on the ground, and then dragged himself quickly to the nearest house wall, trying to control his aim by grabbing his wand with both arms. It was a futile move, as they were both shaking violently. From the stains on his robes, it was clear that he was crying, and the short, gasped sobs of fear added to this conclusion.

"C-C-Come out!" he screamed hysterically. "S-S-Show yourself, monster!"

As if summoned, Sirius reappeared on the very spot he had first been assaulted by the Death Eaters. The melee further down the road between the Terracotta soldiers and the Werewolves was still going strong, and yet none had broken off to help either side in this little skirmish. "Surrender," came Sirius' gentle, but firm command.

The man gulped audibly, tears still falling from his chin onto his robes, and his arms, tightly grabbing onto his wand, were shaking violently. "N-N-Never!" he screamed. "I'll never s-s-surrender to monsters! _Avada Kedavra!_"

To the man's horror, Sirius did not move to evade the spell. For a moment, he thought he had finally dispatched the man who had so casually murdered his five friends. Even as the spell drew nearer, the dark-haired wizard did nothing. Unbelieving glee was just settling in the Death Eater when horror quickly replaced it.

Sirius had lifted one arm towards the spell, and caught it.

He didn't die. He didn't side-step it. He didn't even put up a physical shield.

He _caught_ the spell.

_Avada Kedavra_. The Killing Curse.

The one curse that, short of a physical barrier, could _not_ be blocked.

Even as the Death Eater screamed uncontrollably, sheer panic finally taking over, Sirius curled his hand around the sickly green orb of energy the spell had coalesced into.

"Energy," he suddenly spoke. "All magic is simple energy, malleable to our own desires. If we wished for a person to fly, our energy would allow it. If we wished a person to die, then _Avada Kedavra_ is the result," it sounded more like he was reciting something from memory than a spur-of-the-moment explanation. "Sirius turned his head slightly towards the Death Eater, who seemed on the verge of a total nervous breakdown.

"Did you really think we would not seek to neutralize all your weapons?" he asked, his serene disposition turning savage. "That we would not learn our lessons from the past?!" Sirius' eyes narrowed into a dangerous, feral, and lethal glare. "I'll show you—All of you—the magnitude of your arrogance!" With that, he did the unthinkable.

He crushed the Killing Curse in his hand, snuffing it out.

The lead Death Eater screamed again as his world was being shattered before him. Everything he'd learned about the physics of spellwork, the nature of magic—it was all being defied and destroyed by this one person before him.

Sirius paid no heed to the hysterical man, instead drawing out his dagger and placing his fingers on the blade in a half-curled position. Wind started to pick up around the dark-haired Loyalist, causing his immaculate clothing to billow violently about. A snarl made its way onto Sirius' handsome face, and a growl emanated from his throat, just as his curled fingers on his blade ground against the metal.

"_Rend the flesh from his bones!_" he roared, grinding his fingers along the blade.

"_CERBERUS!_"

* * *

"Oho?" Remus looked up towards the sky, paying no heed to the dead soldier in his grasp. "Sirius let loose," he mumbled. Could he have been in trouble? Remus snorted. As if that was possible. Sirius was more likely than not acting on the repressed rage that Remus had always theorized lay right underneath his skin.

"Something must've royally pissed him off," he mused amusedly. Realizing that he was still holding up a dead body, Remus casually tossed him aside. The body fell on top of another such corpse, the lot of them littering the ground around Remus. None of them were actual people, though, so he hadn't had much trouble with screaming or things like that.

Remus sniffed. Sirius' feel was permeating the very air. Then again, he wasn't surprised—the procedure that had been done to them…it had changed them beyond recognition. Not in terms of physical appearances—no, nothing so superficial.

Their cores, however, the place where their magical energy was stored and shaped to their desire, were irreparably changed forever. For better or worse.

Remus shot up an arm, instinctively catching a Killing Curse with ease. Even before he'd turned to look at his opponent, he had crushed the spell in his hand. "Is that it?" he asked tauntingly, a feral leer on his face. "That won't even give me a nosebleed!"

Remus whipped his other arm around and pointed a finger at the Terracotta soldier that had just attacked him. He placed his free hand on the extended arm to steady his aim, before shouting, feral leer still in place, "_This_ is a spell! _ARS NOVA DECUM! MORS…LUMINENS!"_

A single, thin beam of white light shot out from the tip of his extended index finger, piercing right through the centre of the soldier's forehead and out of the back of it's skull. The soldier fell back onto the ground dead, the wound still smoking.

Remus was grinning with feral glee as he straightened back up and observed the situation around him. His Werewolves were ripping the enemy to shreds, but there were still a decent amount of them. Even with Sirius in full release taking on a decent chunk of the enemy, they would not finish until late in the evening if this kept up. Realizing what he had to do, Remus' grin lessened just a bit.

"Pity," he admitted to himself. "It was just getting fun."

Crouching slightly, Remus brought up a hand to his face and made as if to grab something invisible before it. Dark energy began to coalesce before his hand rapidly. "Time to let the wolf out to play," he mused with a dangerous smile.

"_HOWL!_" he roared, even as the dark energy swallowed his hand and began racing across his body, rapidly covering him up. The energy seemed to distort his appearance, changing it to a far more muscular build and making his hands more claw-like.

"_FENRUS!_"

* * *

Quick translations:

_Ars Nova Undetricensim _- 29th New Art

_Mors Fulminis_ - Death Flash/Lightning

_Ars Nova Decum_ - 10th New Art

_Mors Luminens_ - Death Light


	27. Chapter XXI: The Next Step

_AN: Haha! I see a few of you caught the Bleach references in the previous chapter. Okay, I give--I'm a Bleach fan. However, the reason Sirius and Remus use the Zanpakutou-esque release incantations is different from that of Bleach, so I pray you do not assume anything until the actual explanation is given, m'kay?_

_Anywho, next chapter! _

* * *

As reports came flooding to him from the communications officers onboard the _Invincible_, Harry kept a steady smile on his face as everything seemed to go according to plan. One by one, every step of his plan was being achieved with maximum efficiency. Even better, Remus had managed to take out Greyback, which would undoubtedly land a heavy blow to the Death Eaters' werewolf morale.

The next step, however, would decide everything. First, if his calculations were correct, then the enemy would…

* * *

"You did _what?_" demanded the dark-haired strategist of the Death Eater Armada. The man's dark ebony eyes flared up in fury as he held up his subordinate by her clothing, teeth gritted. "You kept flanking the enemy every time you encountered resistance?! Are you an idiot?" he yelled.

The young man had already figured it out, seconds after being informed. Whoever was commanding the defence of Harrisburg had forced the Death Eater vanguard to thin itself out, allowing the smaller garrison forces to deal with each flank more easily.

'Still,' he mused, 'where did they find the manpower? Our leak's information said only about a thousand soldiers were left!'

"Are there any communication channels open with our vanguard?" demanded the strategist. The threatened subordinate shakily shook her head, causing the young man to roar with fury as he drove a magically powered up arm right through her stomach.

The woman screamed as the infuriated strategist shred through her middle and then pulled back, barely conscious by the time she hit the steel floors. Her head hurting and her stomach heavily haemorrhaging, the woman had a begging arm in the air, aimed right at the strategist, who was breathing heavily as he gazed out of the reinforced windows that gave him absolute view of his front, his left arm stained and dripping with the subordinate's blood.

"M…my l-lord…" she whimpered as she lay dying on the floor, her comrades refusing to move forward to help her for fear of retribution from the Lord Strategist. "P…please…"

The strategist was silent for a moment, his contemplative eyes gazing into the battle before him, his mind rapidly making calculations as he strove for an answer to once again direct the flow of this attack.

"I…it h-hurts…"

Sighing, the strategist raised his bloodied hand and, snapping his fingers, the young woman's middle began to heal at an incredibly fast rate, until she was left panting, the backwash of pain still hitting her, on the floor.

"You did not fail me," he concluded at length as the young woman looked up in gratitude. "Fenrir did. This was his job, and he failed me," he stated. He paused for a second as the young woman got to her knees, his eyes still on the battle. "Still, you cannot go unpunished," he mused, his eyes slowly moving to his left, where she was kneeling in respect. "You should have informed me at once if anything had changed. To my rooms. Wait for me there."

"Y…Yes, my lord,"

As the girl scurried away, thankful for her life, the strategist kept his pensive look as he gazed upon the battlefield. His opponent was highly skilled, but he refused to believe that it was Potter. His latest information had his fleet hundreds of miles away, and he would be unable to arrive in time to make any difference. That meant that whoever was in charge for the Imperial troops was probably good enough to give the Field Marshall a run for his money.

The situation with Fenrir Greyback had him worried, however. As far as he knew, the vanguard could have made a breakthrough, or it could be annihilated. After the third flanking attack, their communication spells went out of range, and none of the initial flanks could be raised, making him assume that they were, in fact, dead.

What this meant was that about 10% of his land-based forces were now unaccounted for, which greatly disturbed him, considering this was supposed to be an easy operation, having scattered the Imperial Fleet and Army to the four corners of the world. To make things even better, the Japanese Emperor was on site as well, which gave them the opportunity to get rid of another enemy.

The problem, however, was getting through the four-ship barrier standing between his fleet and Harrisburg. The four _Invincible_-class Airships were proving to be quite worthy of their class name, as barrage after barrage of magically enhanced projectiles did little damage to the behemoths, whose own guns were remaining strangely silent. The only reason advance they'd made thus far was to dent the armour of the left-most ship, the _Crown_. That had been achieved after a lone MEM (Magically Enhanced Missile) had managed to go through a tiny fracture in the ship's shields (which was rapidly corrected and no longer existed) and made impact against its lower decks. The damage, however, was negligible.

The strategist had begun chewing his nails at that point. He had a good idea as to why the Imperial craftsmanship had increased so exponentially, but if he was right, then the Death Eaters were in deeper trouble than he'd estimated. Only one race had ever managed to build such resilient armour, and indeed still did, deep in their underground, cavernous forges.

_Goblins_.

Not for the last time, the strategist cursed his masters' ridiculous obsession over committing genocide against anything not pureblood. Only werewolves, Dementors, and Vampires had escaped that decree, but only because they were useful, and the second had been decimated by the Imperial forces anyway, a mere year into the war.

Vampires, for their part, were limited in their deployment capabilities, and many had deserted after the Northern Duke had lured them into a tunnel complex in a mountainside, sealed it, and had it razed to the ground by Assault Ship bombardment, leaving their race in shambles.

Therefore, only Werewolves, and the Terracotta soldiers were of any use, and the former was, as far as he knew, all gone as well, considering Fenrir Greyback's lack of communication with him. Whatever werewolves the Death Eaters had left would undoubtedly flee from service once word of the battle's results got out.

The strategist slammed a fist against a nearby railing. How could this have happened? He was perfect—his _plans_ were perfect. They accounted for _everything_. Counters and counter-counters—_everything_ was looked into as a possibility and prepared for carefully.

And yet, they were losing. Losing to someone he did not know. He refused to believe that the Iron Duke was to blame for this. After all, he did fall for the strategist's previous ploy in London. There was no way he had seen through the meticulous planning put into the invasion of New Britannia.

The young man began to pace in front of the reinforced window, his eyes planted to the floor beneath him as his mind went on overdrive in an attempt to reason out who the commanding officer of the enemy fleet was, and how to beat him. From his spy's information, there weren't any remarkable commanders of note that could be credited with such a remarkable defence. In fact, the only real candidate for that position was, in the end, the Iron Duke—the man he'd already duped once, and was sure he'd done so again.

"_Radar Report!_" the voice broke his thoughts. The strategist looked up to see another assistant come running up to him, also female. He liked to look, and possibly do more, at his assistants. It relaxed him to have beautiful women around him at his fingertips. Thus, partly why he joined the Death Eaters.

"Anything new?" he asked crisply.

The young woman nodded once before reading from the report. "The wizards on call report that their spells have detected approximately twelve to sixteen _Retaliation_-class Air Ships coming this way from the south-east!"

"Markings?"

The young woman flipped the front page and looked through the second page. "They appear to have the markings of the Carib Lord, my lord."

That caught the strategist's attention. Though not alarmed, he was intrigued by the presence of the pirate lord of the Caribbean. "Truly? What are his fleet's bearings?"

"Directly towards us, my lord. Our empaths have determined that they seem to hold hostile intent, and our dragon scouts have affirmed that they have accelerated to attack speed."

The strategist nodded, pleased. He allowed his eyes to linger a moment longer on the pretty blonde's curvaceous body before turning his attention back to the window before him. "Send half of our southern-facing flank to deal with him and his fleet. Have the northern flank reinforce the southern."

"Yes, my lord," the young assistant said deferentially with a bow, before leaving. The strategist kept his eyes on her bum as it swayed while the woman walked until it was finally out of sight, and he returned his focus to the battle on hand.

'So the Carib Lord's turned…' he mused to himself. 'No matter. The man's fleet is harmless to the great armada under my command.'

The strategist puffed up his chest in sheer arrogance at that thought. After all, it was the single largest display of Death Eater power since Cairo, when his numerically smaller fleet had decimated the rag-tag African Imperialist Fleet.

What he'd forgotten, however, was that the battle at Cairo had also given birth to one of the Empire's legendary field commanders, John Sulu.

* * *

"The Armada's southern flank is breaking off!"

Sulu grinned widely at the news as he held on to the steel railing above him, the whole transport shuttle trembling as turbulence hit the convoy. Reportedly at Army HQ in Harrisburg, Sulu had in fact left the building early on, as per his received instructions from Harry, minutes after the battle had begun.

He had been extremely surprised to know of the Empire's _actual_ military dispositions, considering he had just attended a briefing that had put their numbers at less than a hundred ships. Though not a little outraged at the fact that this had been kept secret from him, the dark-skinned general and Commander in Chief of the British Armed Forces was glad that he had been included in Harry's little plan; thrilled to be back in the midst of the action, having too long rotted away behind a desk.

His men's target was right in front of them—the Death Eater lead ship in the northern flank, the _Lestrange_, named after, of course, the dynamic, psychotic trio that formed part of the Death Eaters' elite circle. Thought the head of the invasion was not within the _Lestrange_, Sulu had no doubt that taking care of this ship would ultimately foil the invasion even more than it already had.

The transport once again rattled as turbulence hit them in full force, but the young general merely kept a toothy, excited grin on his face as most of his men grabbed onto something to avoid getting flung off their seats.

"_Approaching Action Section. Hold on to something, lads!_" came the pilot's voice over the intercom, seconds before the transport rattled violently, having been brushed by the force of a nearby explosion. A few surprised troopers gave a yelp as they were flung off their seats by the intensity of the shake. The others quickly laughed at their plight.

Up at the front, however, their commander laughed not. Instead, his excited eyes seemed to enjoy the view of the cockpit's windows. It was utter chaos around the assault transports. Dragons zoomed around their view ports, chased shortly after by Lambda fighters, courtesy of the _Invincible_-class ships.

That alone was sufficient grounds to be shocked for Sulu, had he not been briefed earlier as to the Imperial dispositions. After all, as far as he had known, the _Invincible_-class Airships were barely out of fabrication, so most of their garrison detail and systems were understaffed and inoperative, respectively speaking. So to see Lambda fighters scream past, hot on the tails of their foes, was a real shocker to those who had been under the impression that Harrisburg was, to be blunt, screwed.

Sulu watched excitedly as their target grew bigger as they neared the Death Eater Airship, a random dragon exploding into small, gory pieces as a Lambda fighter scored a direct missile hit. The very same Lambda fighter jetted through the fiery exposition of combustible physics, followed shortly by its wingman. That same scene kept repeating itself over and over as the fourteen transports, in total carrying about 500 men, came ever nearer to their target, the black hull of the large Airship looming sinisterly in the cockpit's window. From his position at the open doorway to the cockpit, Sulu could see the view ports of the ship slowly increasing in size, and could even make out a figure or two rushing past them.

"Get me a status check on the other transports," ordered the general. A nod from the ship's co-pilot was all the response he got (which he didn't take offense over, considering how busy they were trying to _not_ get shot down) before a report was then summarily given to him.

"All thirteen transports are still flying with us, General," reported the co-pilot. "Transport Five got dinged up pretty bad, though, sir. Bloody dragon rammed into it after it got killed by one of our lads."

Sulu nodded at the report. That meant that they had to land quickly, or else they would possibly lose Transport Five. "Time to land?" he asked crisply, smoothly getting into his General persona.

"Five minutes, sir," replied the pilot as he pushed down the yoke, dropping the transport a good meter as a dragon flew right overhead, and exploded into a gory death shortly thereafter.

Sulu nodded once again, and made a motion to be passed the communications transmitter. Once he had it in hand, and the co-pilot had patched it through to the other transports, Sulu began his announcement.

"Alright, maggots!" he declared, jolting any slouching soldier into an erect sitting position. "We've got five minutes before we touch down in the _Lestrange_'s docking bay. Check your gear, and ammo, and make sure that the moron next to you does so too!" he barked into the transmitter. "We are outnumbered, out gunned, and storming a ship whose layout we do not know," he reminded them seriously. "So no monkeying around, got that?"

"Sir, Yes, Sir!" came the resounding shout from his men in his transport. Undoubtedly the men and women in the other transports had shouted the same.

"Good. You know the mission. Get in, bomb the crap out of the _Lestrange_, get out. No more, no less. Now then, ladies and gentlemen," he finished, as he felt the ship finally touch base in the _Lestrange_'s docking bay, "Lock and load! It's go time!"

With a cheer, the soldiers pumped up their rifles into the air as the boarding ramp hissed open and finally touched ground. Before even that, however, Sulu had already pre-empted the ramp by jumping off and, taking advantage of the Death Eaters' incredulity, shot one cleanly in the forehead.

As the downed Death Eater's comrades barely began to register what had just occurred, several more of the transports touched ground around Sulu's own, just as his men came running down the ramps. Some of the newly arrived transports didn't even wait for their landing gear to hit ground before opening the boarding ramp, allowing many a soldier to jump down and get straight into the action.

Almost seconds after having fired his first shot, Sulu and his men had already managed to capture a section of the hangar bay, and were using the cover of several many boxes to keep themselves out of harm's way as they shot back with as much ferocity as the spells coming their way.

The men and women of the Empire were fighting with the ferocity they had become well known for, their olive-green, ankle-length coats clouding the enemy's judgement as to the location of their limbs. The British copper helmets barely peeked over or from around the crates they hid behind as the highly trained soldiers of Sulu's detachment kept themselves well clear of danger until they were ready to make a killing shot.

Even so, the British slowly advanced, the five hundred troopers slowly going forward by deploying into two-man groups which laid down expert sniper fire as the main body pressed on behind them. Sulu, for his part, had been practically forced back to lead the main body by his worried men. At the forefront, instead, was one of Sulu's handpicked Majors, a fellow South African by the name of Fenyang Volker. An expert shooter, the ebony-skinned man was probably one of the best in the Army, and leading this sort of operation was probably the simplest thing for him to do.

Tapping his partner's shoulder, Volker motioned for him to move forward while he would provide covering fire. Unhesitating, the soldier nodded and, giving himself a second to take a deep breath, hurtled towards the other side of the corridor that led out of the hangar bay, which they had fully captured now. Hiding behind a steel beam, the soldier peeked out from behind the beam and nodded to Volker, giving him the all clear sign.

Volker nodded in turn and, looking back at the other two pairs, nudged his head forward as an indication that they would be moving together now. The four men (and two women) slowly crept forward, their rifles pointed straight forward as they expected more Death Eaters to appear, the ship probably being on high alert status due to the British breach.

It was weird, then, that they hadn't heard any alarms ringing. Of course, that could simply be because the Death Eaters' overconfidence had made them neglect the installation of such devices, and were the British omnipotent, they would have known that this was correct.

As it stood, then, the British vanguard moved forward down the corridor towards what they expected were either the stairs, or the elevators. Since they knew Death Eaters to be quite lazy, they naturally assumed there to be elevators, although it took them ten rooms to find them. In each of these ten rooms, the British vanguard swiftly and efficiently killed all inhabitants. Of course, by the second such room, the rest of the Death Eaters within the other rooms had come out and begun exchanging fire with the British troops. However, their haphazard defence was no match for the superior skill and training of the British troops, and so the resistance collapsed quickly.

Eventually, the six-man group reached the elevator doors and, pressing the button to call the elevator, they got into position to open fire the moment the doors opened, were anyone to be inside. Luckily, no one was, and so Volker turned and, giving a loud, deep shout of "Clear!" turned to his men and gave a congratulatory thumbs-up.

Sulu, for his part, was advancing ominously through the corridor, elegantly sidestepping the bodies on the floor that the vanguard had killed on their way to the elevator. Behind him, 494 soldiers trailed behind, having completely abandoned the hangar bay now that it was secured by the transports' belly-mounted machine guns.

At the elevator doors, Sulu pulled out a map from his backpack. Or more precisely, a diagram. It was the schematics of the _Lestrange_, with the ship's bridge circled in red. That was their target. Showing it to his lieutenants and sergeants, he pointed out the route they were to take.

"Volker, Guinness, you two take your men to the armoury on level ten and place the explosives," he ordered, then pointing at Volker. "Volker, you take point."

Silent nods from Volker and Guinness, the only Irishman in the group, was all the reply he got.

"Smithson, Vaulk, and Herrman," he then said, pointing to the mentioned men. "You get to the ME Generators and rig them to explode at the same time as the explosives. The rest, with me."

Grunts of assent were given as two of Volker's men pulled the elevator door open, thereby breaking its auto-closing mechanism, revealing the elevator within. One of Volker's female snipers then got a boost as she made her way through the roof grill on the elevator, and once she was on top, fired an escalating cable directly upwards. Once it hooked onto the roof (very, very high up) she then called a warning to the men below as she brought out a small electric shredder.

Loudly, the specialized machine cut through the metal wiring without much effort, and the elevator was sent toppling down the shaft, while the woman hung quite comfortably from her own wire. Nodding to the others, she was passed several more rappelling guns and, shooting up each of them, thereby set up ten wires through which to make one's way up the shaft.

Slowly, the designated groups reached their appropriate floors, and each forced the doors to open, overriding the security locks. At level ten, Volker and Guinness had their men open fire the moment the door was opened, instantly killing off the guards in the elevator antechamber. Quickly moving into the corridor to reach their target, they barely noticed their fellow soldiers keep going up within the shaft.

At level fifteen, the MEG groups also got out, and although they met stiffer resistance, it was nothing a grenade couldn't handle.

For his part, Sulu and his remaining soldiers kept speeding upwards, using the grafts attached to the metallic rappelling coils to mechanically be pulled upwards. Only once they reached the final floor did the dark-skinned general bring up a fist—the classic sign of a halt. Over 70 men were with him, and each had their weapons primed and pointing at the doors as two of their comrades pulled open the elevator doors.

Inside, the on-duty guards were playing cards when they heard the doors creak open and, curious, they abandoned their game to go take a look.

Moments later, Sulu and his team were in the antechamber, the two guards on the floor with bullet holes in their foreheads, courtesy of the silenced, Muggle pistol that Sulu had brought.

"Everyone here?" asked the general as he pulled on the slide of his pistol, releasing the spent cartridge he'd used to kill the second guard. A murmur of assent answered him. "Good. You know the drill. No prisoners. We're not interested in anyone on this ship."

It was an easy job, overall.

The deck crew of the _Lestrange_ were caught completely unprepared as the 70-strong group of British soldiers burst in and opened fire on everything and everyone in sight. Man and woman fell to the ground as the British carried out their orders with diligence and brutality. In the case that a Death Eater was not killed in the initial volley, soldiers paced around the fallen bodies and fired more shots into those of the living. The rest, for their part, were busy carrying out the second part of their mission.

Slowly, the British soldiers redirected the _Lestrange _towards the rear flank of the Death Eater Armada. As the main ship attempted to hail the _Lestrange_, Sulu and his men pulled back the thrust and were nearly catapulted off their feet as the ME Generators gave the engines a massive boost. Not massive enough to get them there in ten minutes, but enough that within ten minutes, changing course would be nigh impossible.

Knowing this, the group quickly made their way back to the elevator shaft. Sulu, his communicator in hand, could be heard screaming, "Volker, Guinness, Situation Report! Over!"

A crackle answered him for a split second before Volker's voice came through. "_All set, general. Moving back to the hangar. Over._"

Sulu had a look of grim satisfaction as he heard those words, and immediately asked the same of the second group, who reported the same thing. All were heading back to the hangar right now for evacuation. Around them, they could feel the ship shudder as the other ships, realizing something was wrong, began to open fire on their former comrades.

The team quickly reached the hangar bay and, grappling onto their grafts, began the quick descent down, intent on getting the hell out of the doomed ship before they went down with it. When the team finally reached the bottom, Sulu's group met up with Volker, Guinness, and the rest. All commanders threw up a salute at the sight of Sulu, who waved it away.

"Lost five while we were setting the charges, sir," reported Volker in his deep voice. "Missed a few Death Eaters when we first cleared the room."

"Three for us, sir," reported Vaulk. "Death Eater threw an Explosion Hex before we got him."

Sulu nodded grimly, noticing the mentioned bodies of his men being carried into the transport ships. "It's a shame, but we all knew the risks," he commented gravely. "Get everyone on board the transports. The other Death Munchers have noticed that something's off and are firing on us. We need to get the hell out of here before it clears the safe zone."

The men nodded and quickly ordered their men onto the ships, which the soldiers gladly obeyed. However, a single hitch in their plans halted the mass evacuation.

Having noticed that something was wrong the moment the rest of the fleet started firing at them, the Death Eaters on board the _Lestrange_ had also moved towards the hangar bay, arriving only as the British soldiers were halfway done with their boarding. Sulu, determined to be one of the last to board, was the first one to notice the enemy troops, and instantly brought up his rifle, opening fire on the mass of Death Eaters desperate to evacuate.

The general's shot instantly alerted the rest of the evacuating British troops, who also brought up their weapons and began firing at the slowly retaliating group of enemies. However, despite being slow on the uptake, the Death Eaters were rapidly giving back as much as they were taking, and Sulu found himself, and his men, slowly backing towards the transports, who couldn't deliver any support fire due to the British soldiers blocking the way.

"Get on the damn transports!" yelled Sulu over the chaotic noise. "We need to get out of here, _NOW!_"

Slowly abiding by Sulu's orders, the soldiers began backing down from the fight, instead opting to fling grenades into the crowd of enemies, in a move to scatter them.

All in all, seventeen more British servicemen had to die before the transports were able to lay down support fire, and the rest of the group managed to board. In the boarding action itself, six more died. Even the take-off was marred by the transports getting shot at by the Death Eaters, and one transport went spiralling down towards the sea as a glancing shot by an Explosion Hex tore away its aft directional flaps.

Sulu cursed wildly as he watched Transport Six go down, taking with it 35 good men. The dark-skinned general slammed his fist against the bulkhead as the transport eventually exploded into a ball of flames midway down—its fuel line no doubt having ignited.

All in all, while the mission was a success, he had suffered 66 casualties out of 500 men, and he blamed himself for every one. Still, he had to report his mission status to the commander in charge of the battle. So, swallowing his guilt, he moved towards the cockpit, ignoring his silent men who all seemed to share the same grief over the recent loss of 35 of their comrades.

'Sometimes,' Sulu mused as he reached the cockpit. 'Victory doesn't…feel like victory.'

* * *

"Yes…mmhmm…I see…very well, General. I shall tell him right away."

Acting Captain McNamara put down the phone-like receiver, sighing. He had just received the mission report from Sulu, and he could tell the General was not at all pleased with the results, even if they had achieved their objective.

Straightening himself and clasping his hands behind his back, the fair-haired Captain turned around on his heel and elegantly walked over to the Commanding Officer of the Imperial Air Fleet, Air Field Marshall Harry Potter, the living legend himself.

"General Sulu's regards, sir. They've successfully redirected the _Lestrange_ and rigged its MEG, Armoury, and bridge," he reported primly.

Harry nodded at the report, pleased. He could tell, however, that this was not the entirety of the report, and would have to question Sulu about it later. For now, however, he had to sever the final thread in the Death Eater's plan.

"What is the status of Harrisburg?" he asked.

"The Dragon Lancers report that all air hostiles are eliminated, and the Texan Dismounted Lancers report that all but one island has been recuperated, sir," answered McNamara promptly.

"Brown?"

"Air Admiral Brown reports that Montreal and Regina have both fallen. They are asking whether to press on towards Ontario."

"No. Have them hold their position for now."

"Very well, sir."

"Marshall?"

"_HMIS Unity_ reports that, in tandem with the Sixth Legion, they have captured New Orleans. Air Admiral Marshall further reports that the local rebel cells also had a major part in the liberation of the city, and others have sprung up throughout the region—even above our estimates."

"What about the European offensive?"

McNamara paused for a moment here as he flipped through his notepad. "Field Generals Cummings and Winters indicate that they have broken through the Paris Line. Our attaché also reports that the Russian troops have won their battle at the Volga."

"Impressive. Wolf?"

"Admiral Wolf is standing by on the enemy's planned escape route, sir. He is merely waiting for the order to be given."

"Malan?"

"The Air Admiral has begun her offensive on Cairo. Initial reports indicate that she is winning, sir, and the _Eulogy_ reports no casualties as of yet."

"Good. Staples?"

"The Admiral has begun his strike against McDonald's forces, sir. He reports that the assassination of McDonald seems to have been carried out flawlessly, and several factions have begun fighting amongst themselves for power."

Harry nodded. "Excellent. O'Connor?"

McNamara bristled slightly at the name of the turncoat pirate. "The…newly reinstated Admiral has reported initiating hostilities against the enemy's southern flank, as planned, sir. As expected, the Death Eaters are in disarray due to the _Lestrange_'s change of direction."

Harry smiled at the distaste shown by McNamara towards O'Connor. Truth be told, he too had felt a slightly odious taste in his mouth when he'd convinced O'Connor to turn on McDonald and rejoin the Empire in return for a commission as Admiral.

"What of the Emperor?"

McNamara looked down at his notepad, which he'd pulled out the moment the Duke had begun his questioning. "His Imperial Highness is in the Palace, sir. He seems to be taking some amusement from the whole situation."

Harry chuckled. "He would," he agreed. "and our Queen?"

"Her Majesty is also in the Palace, sir. Notably much less amused at the situation."

Harry nodded. "Good. Then it's time to give our nation a new hero, and to sever the threads of the Death Eaters. Commence the thirtieth step."

"Yes, Your Grace," acquiesced McNamara with a slight bow.

"Oh, and prepare my transport. I shall be participating in the event."

"Yes, Your Grace."

* * *

As it turned out, the Thirtieth Step was a multi-task step in Harry's planning—one that the Death Eater strategist never saw coming until it was too late.

First, the _Lestrange_ rammed the lead ship in the Armada's rear flank, the _Purity II_, and, powered up by the explosives in the Armoury and ME Generator room, the resulting explosion wiped out the rear flank, and a took with it a decent portion of the rear-most central fleet.

The second part came when, in the wake of the explosion, O'Connor's ships managed to bring down the _Riddle_, which sunk towards the ocean below with flames and black smoke billowing out of several holes in its hull.

Then came the arrival of the Dragon Lancers, who took over for the tired-out Lambda fighters. Their arrival completely demoralized the Death Eater dragon riders, who quickly tried to escape the wrath of the newcomers, with little success.

As for the four _Invincible_-class Airships, they began powering up their weapons, their enemies having failed to scored a significant hit for all this while. In a massive barrage, several of the Death Eaters' Airships exploded when the high-powered cannons on the British ships tore through the bridge of the ships.

Within the command ship, the _Prophecy_, the strategist was screaming in frustration as he watched his fleet, and by extension, his plan, fall apart at the seams. At his feet was the corpse of one of his assistants, who had given him the bad news about the _Lestrange_ and the _Purity_ colliding. He had been completely played throughout this entire battle, and he knew, for a fact now, that the commanding officer could only be Harry Potter. No one else possessed the foresight and skill that man had.

But he swore to have his revenge on the Duke. Determined to save himself from destruction, as a good 4/5 of his fleet was gone, the strategist ran down the hallways, ignoring his fellow comrades who were running in every direction in widespread panic. As he did so, he called up the final trick he had up his sleeve, and ordered it to deploy, but not without him.

He wanted his revenge. And he would get it, if it was the last thing he did. But first, he had to survive this wretched battle.

And yet, even as both the Strategist ran away, and the Imperials celebrated the conclusion of the Thirtieth Step, none realized that much, much more was about to happen, and that Harry had planned for all of it.

The war, he knew was still not over, and even as he walked towards his transport in the _Invincible_'s hangar bay, cheered at by his men, Harry steeled his resolve to end the conflict once and for all. Everything was in place; everything had gone according to plan. Now, only two more things had to happen, and the war would be over.

Two more events until the final, bloody conclusion of his plan.


	28. Chapter XXII: Victory?

_AN: The attack's over, but the war's not! Here's the next chapter. - MB_

* * *

_Harrisburg_

"Hoo-wee!" exclaimed Pike as he reached the central island with his men, his spurs jingling with each step. "You sure did a number on them, Nev!"

Neville Longbottom, his red coat smeared in blood and frayed at the edges, grinned from where he was sitting atop some of the boxes from the barricade. All around him, the remnants of the Third Legion were disposing of any survivors from the battle, of which there were little. Neville's own sword was standing still in the ground, its blade buried a good inch into the blood-soaked ground.

"I hear the same could be said about you, Nathaniel," he returned, watching the Texan man walk up to him with his spear atop his shoulders, hands gripped on the pole to keep it that way. "Black's boys've been crooning all about you"

Nathaniel grinned at his comrade-in-arms as his second in command dismissed the Texan Volunteers. "'Course they are! How could they not, having seen this fine specimen of a man save their asses?" he exclaimed with all the ego he could muster, making Neville laugh.

Nathaniel joined in on the laughter, until something caught his eye. "Oh?" he exclaimed, semi-surprised. "Lookie here. It's Charlie and his crew."

Turning his head, Neville saw that it was indeed Charlie and his Lancers landing their dragons a good dozen meters away.

"Pleasant hunt, Charlie?" shouted Nathaniel, his lance shouldered.

The grim-faced, long-lost Weasley merely grunted. "No challenge," he mumbled as he plopped down next to Neville, accepting his fellow soldier's offer of a canteen, which was predictably full of whiskey.

"Hey, hey, now," chided Pike amusedly. "I saved your ass, remember? Don't you give me none of that cheek now."

"You were late," came the laconic response from the redhead.

"…Maybe," granted Pike, blushing in embarrassment. "But I got you out of that dingy cell didn't I?"

"…four weeks after you broke out."

Neville, for his part, was laughing his head off at the exchange. Charlie would never admit it, but he was quite fond of Pike, with whom he had shared a cell in an American concentration camp. Pike had been arrested and interned for speaking out against the government's participation on the side of the Death Eaters, and had been involved in a mass riot that had nearly liberated Houston from government control. Nearly.

"Now, now, boys," appeased Neville with a grin. "Let's not start a fight in front of the others, ok?"

"I see you're all doing fine," came a familiar voice from in front of them, though they had been too absorbed in the vocal play between Charlie and Pike to notice.

Turning their heads, they saw Harry standing there, and all three men gave him a confident smile.

"Of course," assured Neville, giving him a smirk. "Though I _still_ can't believe this went off without a hitch."

Pike gave Harry a thumbs up. "Top notch, Potter. Bastards never saw it coming."

Charlie, merely had a confident smile on his face as he crossed his arms over his wide, armoured chest plate, his armour glistening in the sun.

"Now what?" was all Charlie asked.

Harry smiled confidently at his subordinates (plus one American volunteer commander). "Game's not over yet, lads. If I'm correct—"

"And you usually are," joked Pike.

"—then they're going to send in a final, last-ditch wave against the Palace. It'll be larger than all the others, and will require us to pool everything together at the palace."

Pike whistled appreciatively at the mental image that conjured, while Neville and Charlie nodded grimly. "That big, huh?" asked Pike.

Harry nodded. "The Death Eaters are on the run on four continents. The news of the Armada's defeat and the global rout will no doubt cause them to pool everything they have left into one last attack on the palace, in the hopes of killing Her Majesty," he reasoned. "The rest of the city doesn't matter anymore. They won't touch it. They'll focus on the palace, and we'll meet them there for one final battle."

At this point, Neville caught Harry's eye and was about to form a question when Harry stopped him with a raised hand.

"We will deal with him later."

Neville shut his mouth and nodded simply at the explanation, though one could tell he was not comfortable at the idea.

Harry now smiled at his friends. "Without a doubt, there are people waiting for all of you at the palace. I suggest you take advantage of this brief respite and go see them," he suggested. "I'll take care of getting the men to the palace."

Nodding appreciatively, the three heroes bowed slightly in respect to Harry (which made the 24-year old roll his eyes) before gathering their gear and leaving the site. Only Pike hesitated to walk away entirely, instead favouring to turn towards Harry and give the celebrated hero a calculating look—something that looked positively odd on the usually jovial Resistance fighter's face.

"Charlie didn't ask, nor did Neville," he noted, before then adding, "but I will. Even after this coming fight, there's still more to this show, isn't there?"

Harry gave the American resistance fighter a secretive smile and put a finger to his own lips. "Maybe," was all he said. "The show must go on, after all."

Nathaniel barked out a laugh. "Hah! How true!" he exclaimed laughingly. He then swung his pike at Harry, the blade reaching barely an inch from the celebrated hero's nose tip. "I like you, Potter. I like your style. Even after this fight's over, you ring us up if you're ever needing help, y'hear?" With that said, the American man walked away, his laughter still ringing through the air.

Hands on his hips as he looked around him, Harry sighed in satisfaction that the most important battle in this war had ended favourably. He was even more satisfied when he felt slender arms surround his waist, a familiar scent filling the air.

"Missed me?" he asked with an arrogant grin as he turned to look at who had embraced him.

Smiling impishly up at her husband, Ginny got onto her toes and planted a loving kiss on his lips. "Nope," she whispered after she broke it.

Harry laughed at the response and turned to hug his wife. "I'm glad everything went well, Harry," she told him as she pushed him slightly away.

Harry smiled. "As am I, my love," he told her. "Was Sarah ok?" he asked worriedly.

The question sent a jolt of happiness through Ginny, who was in constant question as to Harry's feelings towards his daughter. "She was," she replied smilingly, her smile _very_ happy. "I kept her company all throughout the battle. She never heard thing."

Harry smiled, pleased. "Good. I don't want her to know those sounds. Ever. No child should ever hear the sound of a gun, or that of a man dying."

Harry now leaned down slowly, his hand on the back of Ginny's neck pulling her up towards him. "Especially…" he breathed as they came closer. "…not our child."

It was a very happy Ginny that kissed Harry at that moment, as she felt herself certain now of her husband's affections. Harry, however, broke off the kiss soon after they'd begun, much to her dismay.

She opened her eyes to see a smiling, but weary Harry looking down at her. "What?" she asked, confused.

"You're a silly woman, Gin," he told her, somewhat ruffling her feathers in the process.

"_What?_" asked Ginny dangerously, her hand going towards her wand instinctively.

Her movements and indignity, however, were cut short as Harry cupped her chin in his strong hand.

"You've been having doubts about my affection for you," he elaborated, his face so close and his eyes so passionate that it made the redhead blush.

"W-what are you talking about?" she stuttered nervously. She refused to admit her insecurities out loud.

Harry's smile became gentle. "Gin, don't lie to me."

Ginny averted her eyes from Harry's gaze now. "Fine. Yes, I have," she admitted reluctantly. "You're never home, your own daughter wonders if you love us anymore…and I know you have your work to do, but…"

She was cut off mid-rant, however, by the feeling of Harry's chest against her cheek as her husband gave her a firm hug. She could feel his chin resting on the side of her head.

"Silly Gin," he mumbled softly, his voice only carrying to her ears. "You should always know that you're the only one for me…"

"B-but—"

"I _adore_ you, Ginevra Potter," cut in Harry before she could protest. The declaration made Ginny blush and her breath hitch. "Out of every woman I know, only you can comfort me, only your voice brings me peace, and only you know my…pain."

Ginny felt, rather than saw her husband turn pale at the last word, and her heart went out to him. Despite the fact that Harry was taciturn with _everyone_ about his military record in India, Ginny had been one of the few to have been told, unbeknownst to all. After all, she had dragged it out of him one night after a nightmare too many. The resulting story had been…illuminating.

"I'm always here for you, Harry," she whispered to him as she snuggled into his embrace, eyes closing in revel.

Harry's hug became tighter. "As am I for you, my love. As am I."

The two remained in that position for a few more minutes before Ginny broke the silence once more. "It's not over yet, is it?" she asked.

Harry remained stoic at her question, but had anyone paid attention to his eyes, they would have seen them harden. "No. It's not."

Ginny pulled away from Harry gently and pushed him gently onto a box, making the battle-weary Duke sit down. As Ginny sat on his lap and leant back into his chest, Harry grinned down at her as he circled her small frame with his arms. "Comfortable?" he asked.

Ginny sighed happily as she nodded and closed her eyes. "Very."

Harry laughed lightly before setting his eyes towards the palace, where he could see, in the distance, as a commotion seemed to grow, undoubtedly caused by the appearance of the presumed-dead Neville Longbottom, and the resurgence of the missing Weasley brother.

"I still can't believe the sacrifice they made," noted Ginny, taking the very words out of his mouth.

"I know…I could _never_ do what they've done. Not willingly," agreed Harry. "The past five years were _torture_, not seeing you every waking moment. I can't imagine anyone willingly agreeing to do the same, even for a shorter period of time—plan or no plan."

"Susan's probably out of her mind with joy," added Ginny.

"Susan? Imagine the your _family's_ reaction when Charlie shows up."

Ginny giggled. "True. Mother will probably hug the living daylights out of him. Probably kill him, too, for being alive and well and not telling them."

Harry laughed. "I hope not. It's damn hard finding good dragon riders. Charlie's one of the best."

Ginny giggled at Harry's joke. Her husband was being unusually open and warm to her, and she wasn't about to lose a single moment of it by doubting it. He had embraced her warmly, kissed her warmly, and spoken lightly—everything she had desired of him since they had found each other in the skies above Panama.

"You know the Queen's furious right now," she eventually said, reluctantly bringing the topic back to the war. "She's demanded you show up and explain yourself."

Harry grimaced. Such a confrontation wouldn't be pretty. "I figured. I mean, I did hide a lot of things from her," he admitted. "Sulu's a bit miffed, too, I hear," he added, before chuckling. "Staples is having a blast, though. I heard he's loving his assignment attacking McDonald's forces."

"He would," agreed Ginny with a giggle. Just then, Harry seemed to notice something on her dress, and gently rubbed something off her shoulder. "What was it?"

"Blood," he stated simply. "A drop must have fallen from the roof."

Ginny goggled at Harry. "How did you--?"

Harry laughed. "Please. What else would you use?" he asked teasingly. "Your favourite technique has always been your newest one—what was it? 'Slit his throat'?"

Ginny grumped. "It's '_Slice him to bits_' actually," she corrected. "And it is _not_ my favourite spell."

Harry grinned down at his petite wife. "Please. What else would have caused such a mess that blood was falling from the _ceiling_, of all places?"

"Reducto," she shot back.

"You kept our daughter company, remember?" reminded Harry with a grin.

"Fine. Sectumsempra."

"Again, kept our daughter company."

"Yes, but I could have enchanted time-delayed mechanisms to shoot them off once I gave a keyword."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Ingenious, but since I didn't see any when I left, and I know such a feat would take quite a bit of time, I doubt it."

Ginny scowled. It was hard to pull wool over her husband's eyes. While that meant he was _very _good at his work, it also meant it was harder to tease him or prank him. "Fine, yes, I used my release," she admitted at length, giving up on the fruitless attempt to pull her husband's leg. "You know, you're an infuriatingly difficult man to deceive."

Harry grinned. "I thought that was one of the reasons you loved me," he teased right back, nuzzling her neck. Ginny's breath hitched when his own gently caressed her nape. Ginny then scowled. She knew that Harry was doing this on purpose.

"It's no fun when I can't pull one over you, though," she complained.

Harry's grin widened. "Shall I dumb myself down, then, dear?" he asked her mock-politely and looked about ready to laugh when Ginny snorted derisively.

"What, and be a pushover?" she asked in mock-outrage. "Don't be ridiculous."

"What a difficult woman to please!" lamented Harry exaggeratedly. "She wants me not as I am, nor dumber!" Something then caught Harry's eye, and he let a sly smile form on his lips as he tightened his embrace on Ginny's midriff. "But look here who it is," he whispered almost sensually into her ear, making her breath hitch for a second.

Ginny, however, had noticed the same thing too, and a similar smile had formed on her face. "So predictable," she agreed in a similar whisper, having put her hand on the back of his neck and gently pulling his ear closer to her mouth. She smiled when he shivered at the feeling of her breath. "Shall I let the others know?"

Harry's grin lost its playfulness at that moment, replaced instead by the same cruel cunning that had taken over him during the battles before. "No need, they already know."

"Everything is finally going to end, isn't it?" asked Ginny, unable to restrain her excitement from leaking into her voice. "It's all about to be over."

"Yes," agreed Harry, his eyes fixed on the approaching figure. The last pieces of his plan were finally falling into place. A few more steps, and this silly war would be over with, and he would have achieved his goal. As Harry's own excitement began to flare up within him, small, glowing tendrils of energy began to rise from his body, giving him an eerie, evil look.

"Everything is going exactly according to plan."


	29. Chapter XXIII: The Next Act

_AN: Apologies to those who wanted to see Elizabeth chew out Harry--It's not going to happen in this chapter or the next. I might decide to include it if I ever do an Elizabeth interlude, however, in which case it would be the chapter after the next one. Cheers -- Marquis_

_Also, to reviewer "sue me" (good one; had me chuckling for a bit) -- All I can say regarding the Order's apparently erratic relationship with the Crown is that nothing, absolutely nothing important in the Empire happens by chance. Regarding Hermione's stereotype as the uber-genius, I don't know myself. _

* * *

'_How has it come to this?_' wondered the strategist as he watched the massed Death Eater remnants gather around the massive Portkey that had been created for this very mission. '_Two days ago, we were the greatest power in the world…and now we are on the run, about to embark on a final, desperate mission against our foes…_'

Even the Terracotta soldiers had failed him, and now none were left. As the strategist waited to give the order to grab onto the piece of rope that led to the central, massive round piece of rope, he allowed himself to think his situation through.

They still outnumbered the Imperial troops in Harrisburg's garrison, though they were devoid of an Airfleet or a Navy. The werewolves had abandoned him, as had the Vampires. The Giants had opted out of the war, and their dragons were all but decimated. Even banshees and other dark creatures refused to take part in this last offensive, having seen the writing on the wall.

The Goblins, however, were more than ready to help their Imperial allies, having secured 30 seats in the 500-seat strong Imperial Parliament. The Japanese, his last reports indicated, had deployed their new Airfleet to Harrisburg to secure the Emperor, though they would not arrive for another full day. Then there was the Irish, who had just managed to throw off the Death Eaters' control, which had been weakened by the European advances of the Imperial Legions. In thanks, they had sent a delegation to negotiate _acceptable_ terms for Irish entry into the new Empire, and as a show of good faith, 3,000 Irish infantry were being transported to Harrisburg to help out with its defence while the Legions were away. They, too, were not to arrive for a day. The same applied for the Spanish, French, and German troops, all of which had been promised to the British in thanks for the Imperial effort at squashing the European civil war that had ravaged the continent.

Now, only England and Scotland were still under their control, and even _that_ was tentative, as every last remnant of the Death Eaters was gathered at the Portkey, and failure to achieve victory would result in their _de facto_ annihilation.

Was that what he really wanted? To risk his life in a battle that he _knew_, in his gut, would fail? His oath of revenge still rung through his mind as well, driving him to agree to the idea of a last-ditch attack on the Imperial capital. Even the Council of Death, usually far more circumspect, had given the green-light for it—they had actually _suggested_ the plan.

The thought consumed the strategist as he watched Rodolphus Lestrange, his wife next to him, give a racist's dream speech, imbued with all the typical things: superiority of race, confidence, arrogance, and certainty of victory. It was as full of empty promises as ever, but it served its purpose—the remaining Death Eaters were full of confidence.

Sighing, the strategist nodded when Rodolphus gave him the signal to give the order. "Alright!" he shouted, his thoughts still unclear as to his desire. "Everyone grab their designated pieces of rope and get ready for mass transportation! Do _not_ let go, and have your wands at the ready!" he told them. "We will be arriving directly into the fight, so it is likely that the Imperials _will_ open fire the moment they see us!"

Even as he shouted the orders and advice, he saw the Death Eaters quickly do as they were told, although some of the younger conscripts (which had been forced into service when the Harrisburg campaign failed dismally) had to be threatened or coaxed into doing so. Most of them, the strategist knew, were no older than 16.

It made no difference to him, however. They would be useful as cannon fodder regardless of their skill.

He also saw that many of the Death Eaters were bringing with them antiquated weapons—of the likes of broadswords and lances; no doubt impressed by the strength displayed by the Imperial Dragon Lancers and their American allies, of whom he'd learned about _after_ the battle from a defeated Death Eater commander who had ordered his men out of New Orleans. Said commander was subsequently killed by the Council.

Still, it was a good idea, if they were ever able to get within melee distance, which he doubted most of them would.

'So why am I going along with this?' he wondered. 'What possible good would it do me to go on a mission where I will _die_?'

The Death Eaters were cheering now, as Rodolphus gave them a last (supposedly) stirring speech. Most of his brainless compatriots were pumping their fists in the air. That was when he realized that he felt nothing for them. No shred of pity, no compassion. As far as he was concerned, they all could die, as long as he himself didn't. To hell with vengeance, he figured. What good would it bring him if he would die before he could enjoy it?

So it was that when Rodolphus was about to say the last syllable in the keyword (Purity, originally enough), the strategist let go of his rope. The Death Eaters around him barely had a chance to shout in protest before they were sucked into oblivion by the Portkey.

Now left alone in the midst of the Salisbury plains, the strategist looked around him for a moment. What to do now? He had betrayed the Ministry, Voldemort, and now the Death Eaters. The Imperials probably knew who he was, and after their victory would undoubtedly begin a manhunt for him once his body was discovered to not be amongst the dead.

"Damn…should have thought this through a bit more," he cursed as he put his hands on his hips. "Those idiots are probably getting killed right now…" he mused, before an idea came to mind. "…surely they won't miss their wealth?"

And a few of them had a good dozen female slaves, to boot, as he recalled. The Malfoys had none, he knew (Lucius and Narcissa were too devoted to each other), but Rodolphus Lestrange and the rest of the Death Eater patriarchs seemed to have no such restraint. After the loss of his ship, he had felt his urges rise exponentially, mainly as a way to release his frustration and rage, but since he had lived out of that ship, all he had was gone.

Smirking to himself, the strategist nodded as he chose his path. He was about to Disapparate when he heard the crack of an Apparation behind him. Spinning around, all he could see was a hooded figure wearing a greatcoat.

"What do you want?" demanded the strategist, his hand going to his wand at his side. "I have no time to be wasting on peons!"

A sinister chuckle emerged from within the hood, causing the strategist to feel chills going down his neck. A mere hand movement later, and the strategist felt his neck constrict, causing the man to choke as the air left him.

"You would do well to be more courteous, Death Eater Lord Strategist Igor Karkaroff," hissed the voice from within the hood, breaking Bagman's glamour.

Revealed for who he was, the former Headmaster for Durmstrang Academy looked panicked as he felt himself growing faint from lack of air. He tried to ask who the hooded person was, but was stopped midway as his neck was sharply snapped in two, killing him.

Dropping the hanging body of Karkaroff onto the floor with a mere hand gesture, the hooded figure looked around before dropping his hood, revealing the young and healthy face of Barty Crouch Jr. He seemed to consider something for a moment before then rolling up one of his coat's sleeves and touching his Dark Mark with his wand.

Instantly, the sound of cracks from Apparation surrounded him as numerous more figures in greatcoats appeared from thin air. Barty nodded to each of them before giving out his orders.

"Alright, we know what our master wants. Take the wealth and valuables, free the slaves, and burn the housing," he said.

Muted agreement was given by his cohorts, who bowed their head in acquiescence before Disapparating again.

For his part, Crouch was looking at Karkaroff's corpse with an impressed look.

"So…Potter won," he mused amusedly. "Looks like the master was correct in choosing the boy over his former followers."

Kicking the dead corpse of Igor Karkaroff for good measure, Crouch shrugged. "Eh…whatever. Act One of this grand play's done. Now it's our turn," he told himself. Crouch then looked towards the sky, an excited look on his face. "I eagerly await to see you play your part, Harry Potter."

With that, he laughed hysterically and Disapparated, leaving only Igor Karkaroff's body inhabiting the empty Salisbury plains.

Unfortunately for Barty, his hasty disappearance meant he missed the pops that resounded in the air seconds after he left, heralding the arrival of several people, all hidden by the heavy, hooded cloaks they wore.

"Oh?" spoke up one of the newly arrived men, noticing Karkaroff's body. "One of them stayed behind!"

"Oh my," spoke up another as the group crowded around the body. "It's Karkaroff!"

"Amazing!" exclaimed another. "Just like he predicted!"

Clapping caught their attention then, and they turned to see one of their comrades staring at them sternly. "Right, then, you lot. We're not here for sightseeing!" he barked out gruffly. "We've got a firm time-table to follow, and every second we lose here is one we have to make up by doubling our efforts!"

Everyone nodded apologetically at the leader's words, and the man seemed satisfied. "We've all got our orders! You all know what to do!" he reminded them. "Remember, lads, if we pull this off, the war ends! Now, then let's go!"

With a sombre, but energetic common shout of agreement, the group quickly disappeared.

* * *

"Oh my, I didn't think they'd actually go for it."

Sirius gave an ironic smile to James as the Potter Patriarch looked down into the main Imperial Square at the foot of the Imperial Palace. He was seated in a very comfortable-looking chair and, for all appearances, looked entirely amused by everything. At his side, also sitting in a similar chair but with a far more prim posture, was his wife Lily. Sirius had been the only one not to sit, instead choosing to stand at his friend's other side.

"Harry did say that they would," reminded Lily calmly, and with a hint of pride. Sirius almost chuckled; the pride of the Potter patriarch and matriarch towards their son was near-legendary—especially after they had found out that Harry was not as cruel and evil as they had thought.

"Honey, believing that Harry's every word is solid fact is a bad example to set," chided James, though the quirk in James' lips made it hard to take him seriously. "He's not God."

"You'd think he was, if you heard the troops and common folk talking," mumbled Sirius with a wry smile.

"Hmm? Did you say something, Sirius?" asked Lily amusedly. Obviously, she'd heard him full well, but wanted to take the mickey out on him.

Sirius put on his best innocent look then. "Me? Never."

"If you clowns are quite done…"

James smiled, even though he never took his eyes from the battle below. He didn't have to—he knew exactly who it was that had spoken up. "Feeling curious, Your Majesty?"

"Hmph," sniffed Elizabeth, walking up between James and Lily's seats and standing in front of the elegantly sculpted stone fencing of the elevated balcony. Truly, this was probably the best place to be to observe the happenings below without getting directly involved. "I just wanted to see what that fool of a son of yours is up to, Lord Potter."

Ah, so she was still bitter about the fact that Harry had kept her out of the loop. It was an entirely logical reaction, the group knew, and so weren't about to comment on it.

Silenced passed between the four for a moment as the people in the Square made their final preparations for the impending attack they now had confirmation about. Finding out about Harry's informant had been quite the shock, too, as no one but he and Ginny had known about the identity of the informant in question.

"It's a good plan," Elizabeth spoke up reluctantly. Lily and James exchanged glances before nodding, although the Queen couldn't see them. "It's very sound."

"Our Harry doesn't like anything less than that," agreed Sirius solemnly.

"Hmm…" the Queen made a noncommittal noise. "Dumbledore disapproves of all this, of course."

"He would," noted James dismissively. Where once he had nearly worshipped the man as a beacon of the Light, James now saw him as either an equal, a rival, or both. There were no lingering feelings of hero-worship left in James Potter, replaced instead with calm respect, and a healthy dose of scepticism. "I heard he wanted Tonks, Malfoy, and Snape punished for their disregard of his order not to kill Death Eaters."

Lily looked amused. "Even if everyone else, save maybe Hermione and Ron did it too?" she asked, having not heard of this before. James nodded, making Sirius give a barking laugh in irony.

"The man's looking for scapegoats. Even his own people are refusing to listen to him now," noted the well-dressed man. "They're far more likely to listen to Harry at this point than him."

"Hmm," agreed the Queen. She was still staring out towards Imperial Square, where the enemy was reportedly going to be appearing through mass Portkey. "He approached me about that—wanted me to forbid civilian participation and retroactively hand out punishments to those that had killed Death Eaters."

"You'd have a rebellion in seconds," opined Sirius, who was smiling ironically—as if the entire situation was a joke. "Nevermind the ex-Order members who'd be punished, the public would rise up in arms if the men and women who fought with Black were punished for their deeds."

James and Lily both voiced their agreement to that statement, and the Queen followed suit with a nod. "That's why I turned it down," she stated primly. "I believe the former Headmaster is plotting against me once again."

Lily shook her head sadly. "It's such a shame…" she spoke sadly. "He really was a great man once. Now that he's losing control, he's just getting rash."

Elizabeth nodded. "It is truly a pity," she agreed. Sirius seemed more sceptical, but James nodded as well. "I had hoped to use him to bridge the gap between our two communities."

"What will we do?" asked James, who could sense an impending order a mile away.

Elizabeth smiled to herself as her eyes swept over the organizing manoeuvres down in the Imperial Square. "As the Duke is always so fond of saying, we will do what we must," she stated simply. "That is the Empire. We hold to no ideology, no cause but our own. We will be, and do what we must in order to survive and maintain our way of life."

Sirius, James, and Lily all bowed their heads to the back of the Queen of the British Empire in solemn reverence. With the light of the reddening sun shining on their monarch, she truly gave off the aura of a future hegemon. Harry had taught her well. As one, they intoned the two words that they had chosen to represent their path in life once more.

"Yes, Majesty."

* * *

"Everything is ready and everyone is waiting for orders, Harry."

Harry smiled as Ginny broke her attention from her communicator to him, her husband. She was wearing a fairly loose dress this time around—undoubtedly for better mobility during combat. Still, the skin-tight corset that accentuated her deliciously moulded waist and the way the dress held up her modest breasts made it still so very alluring to Harry.

"Eyes up, love," she chided with a smile, forcing Harry to stop admiring his wife's body. "You'll get yours when the fighting's done," she promised.

Harry grinned. "I suppose that's further incentive to crush the enemy quickly and brutally, then," he joked. The two laughed for a bit before Harry went down to business. "Anyway, orders are to stick strictly to the plan. We don't want them to be overwhelmed by our numbers alone—that would achieve nothing."

"I still don't get that," noted Nathaniel, who entered the dining hall of Potter Manor at that moment. "I mean, why not just get the damn bugs out of our way quickly by massed fire? Nice place, by the way."

Harry grinned. "Thanks," he replied amusedly. "As for why, because this battle is a statement, Nathaniel. I want the enemy to be crushed, sure, but I also want the world to see that numbers alone aren't the reason of our victory. I want to crush every last vestige of the idea of taking on the Empire out of existence."

"Probably not going to happen, you know," noted Nathaniel, who was eyeing Harry between admiring the décor. "Always some crazy ready to take on the odds. Hell, you should know. You did it."

Harry laughed, and even Ginny giggled at the truth of that. "Perhaps," agreed Harry. "But because I did it, I know how they think. I also know where they'll show up. As long as I can crush the spirit of those who would follow them, taking out a few individuals pre-emptively won't be a problem."

Nathaniel once again gave Harry a once-over. "Some would call that unfair."

Harry didn't seem shaken by the subtle accusation. "I'm preserving peace and giving our species a viable way to survive. Frankly, I don't care if it's unfair." Harry gave Nathaniel a wicked grin. "I think it was one of you Americans who said it best; 'the tree of liberty must at times be watered with the blood of patriots and tyrants,' no?"

Nathaniel looked at Harry oddly before laughing out loud. "HA!" he barked. "Only you would use Thomas Jefferson to justify keeping an _Empire_, of all things!"

Harry smiled, but Ginny seemed a little stand-offish about Nathaniel. There was something about the man's laugh that unnerved her. "May I ask why you're here, Mr. Pike?" she asked.

Nathaniel smiled. He was about to speak when Harry cut him off. "I imagine that Mister Pike is here to give me his answer to a proposal I made earlier, am I right?" he asked Nathaniel, who grinned knowingly before nodding once.

"I've talked it over to the lads, and they all agreed as well."

"Then?" prompted Harry, ignoring his wife's confused look.

Nathaniel dropped to one knee before Harry, his spear beside him. Ginny almost started at the sight—it was a sign of complete submission.

"The Resistance has heeded your counsel, Duke of Halifax," spoke Nathaniel very formally, as if he had rehearsed it previously. "As of today, in my capacity as Formal Representative of the South-Western Wing of the American Resistance, I hereby pledge the resources and manpower of the American Resistance to your cause, in return for the rewards you have promised us."

Even as Ginny gaped—she had never known about this facet of Harry's plan—Harry smiled in satisfaction. "And I shall not forget my dues, Mister Pike," he assured his guest. "After the last of our enemies fall, the Empire will help the Resistance restore order to the United States, and help you set up a working, functional government…"

Nathaniel bowed his head lower in thanks. "…with the possibility of entry into an expanded Imperial Commonwealth," he added, as if finishing Harry's statement. Harry rose an eyebrow, but nodded nonetheless. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"I would have imagined that your people would be against association with the Imperial Commonwealth," noted Harry as Nathaniel got back up on his feet. "After all, we're being ceded Norfolk and Annapolis under Right of Conquest—hardly a popular thing."

Nathaniel shrugged. Ginny glanced between the two men curiously. "Some were against," admitted Nathaniel. "But the majority of us are realists. If the war ends according to your plan, disassociation would be political, economic, and military suicide. Even though there's a lot of resentment over Norfolk and Annapolis, we're also very aware that a lot of people in the Empire would love to see us exterminated for helping the Death Eaters."

That was incredibly shrewd of the usually happy-go-lucky Texan, Ginny thought. He certainly didn't seem to fit the stereotype of pre-war Americans that everyone she knew seemed to have. He wasn't being arrogant, cocky, or idiotic. Instead, he was talking—no, _negotiating_ with Harry civilly, intelligently, and pragmatically.

"But it's bad for business all around if that happens," summed up Harry with a smile. Nathaniel nodded with an ironic smile in agreement. "I understand. I will convey your wish to the Queen and Parliament. Undoubtedly they will put forth heavy consideration on your request."

Nathaniel bowed gratefully. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Harry smiled and flicked up a finger towards Nathaniel. "Since the ugly part of this business is over with, I imagine you know the details of the assignment I had planned for you?" he asked, amused. Nathaniel, there his credit, did not start at the implication that he had spied on the Duke for information.

"I do," agreed Nathaniel. Harry's smile grew wider.

"Good. I like proactive people," he replied agreeably. "That being said, I'd like you to carry it out."

Nathaniel nodded firmly. He was about to turn to leave when he suddenly stopped, however. "If I may ask, why there?" he asked, turning back to look at Harry. "Why would you want me to camp my men at Serpent Fortress? Or, more accurately, the ruins of Serpent Fortress?"

Ginny's eyes widened in surprise at this information, turning to look at Harry in shock. Her husband, for his part, seemed amused at the situation, and at Nathaniel's question. "Is there any real need for me to answer that question, I wonder?" he asked rhetorically. "Why else? The last battle of this silly war will be there. As it always was going to be."

Always? The word stuck foremost in Nathaniel's mind. How long had Potter been planning this? What's more, had he meant to let that slip? Glancing at the redhead next to Potter—whom he assumed to be Potter's renowned wife, Ginevra—he saw that she had moulded her facial features into an impassive mask. He would get no answers from her. From the poker-faced smile Potter had, he wouldn't get any from him, either.

Nathaniel settled for a nonchalant attitude. Whatever the answer was to his doubts, it had nothing to do with him. All that mattered right now was that the war ended and his country was returned to the way it should have been.

"I see."

Ginny watched impassively as Pike left the dining hall of the Potter's home. Harry had just revealed a hand that she had not known about, and that confused her. Harry told her _everything_. How come she hadn't known about a new offensive?

"If you're wondering about the Hogwarts offensive," intruded Harry into her thoughts. "Don't."

Ginny's eyes snapped over to him. "Why not?"

Harry didn't bother to look at her. "Because it's not about to happen yet," was his prim response. "No use worrying about matters that may not matter until the present matter is done."

Ginny tried to wrap her head around that one, and dismissed the thought for the question she was burning to ask. "What's at Hogwarts?"

She felt Harry's glance on her for a second before it was gone. "Our last obstacle."

Ginny frowned. That was incredibly vague. As far as she knew, Harry had crushed out the possibility of future enemies via negotiation or military action (sometimes despite her objections). "I thought the attacking Death Eaters were our last obstacle?" she voiced her doubt.

Harry chuckled, his eyes still on the long table before him. "If I remove the cancer but not the source, then what's the point?" he asked rhetorically. "All effects have a cause, and all causes have an effect. This is a law of the universe. The Death Eaters are the effect of a cause. Hogwarts is were I will eliminate that cause."

"So the ambush outside…?" she asked tentatively.

"Gets rid of one threat, but doesn't finish everything," finished Harry. "Look at it as the end of the first act. The next act—the final act—however, begins after that."

"Harry…" Ginny started, but was cut off by Harry's abrupt move of standing up.

"We'll talk about that later," he told her bluntly, a feral grin spreading along his face. "Right now, we have guests to attend to."

Outside, the sound of an explosion rang through the sky.

* * *

_Post-AN: To be **PERFECTLY** clear: The Resistance is **NOT** submitting the United States to Imperial control. It is merely granting the Empire command of the campaign until victory is achieved, at which point the Empire has sworn to restore the American Republic. Just needed to make that clear, so I'm not being accused later on of being a frothing, rampaging Americanophobe. - MB._

_PS: Disregard of this very clear explanation and subsequent flaming will be ridiculed to the fullest extent of my considerable grasp of the English language.  
_


	30. Chapter XXIV: Era's Bloody End

_AN: You lads and lasses are lucky I'm in such a good mood today; the original plan was to keep you all in suspense about Harry's master plan for another few days, but I'm feeling charitable, since it's my roommate's birthday._

_So, without further ado, I give you Chapter 24: Era's Bloody End, AKA "Harry's Master Plan". Enjoy Harry's divulging!_

_- MB  
_

* * *

The Death Eaters had arrived in the Imperial Square fully expecting that they would be shot at and butchered on sight. Even so, they had also expected that a few would survive the initial onslaught and would then storm the Imperial Palace and murder the filthy Muggle Queen where she stood.

Thus, they were very, _very_ confused when absolutely nothing happened when they finished Portkeying into the Square.

Rodolphus Lestrange looked around him frantically, as if looking for the enemy, even as the rest of the Death Eaters started shouting amongst themselves in a strange sort of panic. It was strange because nothing had happened, and that made the situation feel all the more eerie, as the Square, where the Imperial forces had made their final, victorious stand against the Death Eater army, was entirely absent of any sort of tell-tale signs of violence.

"Rodolphus!" shouted Lucius Malfoy. "What's going on?"

'_How the hell should I know?_' thought Rodolphus. He had never seen such a thing in his life, which made the seasoned veteran all the more wary. "It must be a trap! Everyone stay back to back and shields up!" he shouted.

Somewhat motivated by their own fear, the Death Eaters quickly made to follow Rodolphus' instructions, clustering against each other until the force was just one big blob, lacking in any discipline or order.

"What on earth is going on?" demanded Avery, who was sporting quick the ugly gash along his jaw—courtesy of Admiral Malan's sword in Egypt. "Where are the enemy? For that matter, where, in the name of Merlin's _balls_ is Karkaroff?"

"Bloody traitor ditched us!" yelled one of the Death Eaters.

"Bah," spat Rodolphus. "Karkaroff always was a coward. Nevermind him. He told us that this would be the best place to storm the palace. That's enough," he stated arbitrarily.

"But I see no enemies, brother," noted Rabastan, training his wand in front of him. "In fact, this entire city looks like it hasn't even been lived in."

"I hate to say it, but the boy's right," agreed Rookwood, who was a few years older than Rabastan. Still, the jibe made the younger man bristle in indignation. "Nothing as far as the eye can see."

"Then it's an illusion," concluded Rabastan, gritting his teeth from snapping at Rookwood. "We're being played with."

"Bah!" cried McNair derisively. "How could those pansy Muggles even know we were coming?"

"Nott underestimated them too, McNair," Lucius reminded his colleague with a sneer. "So did Jugson. Neither are with us right now."

McNair returned the sneer full power. "Fine! Cower if you like!" he shot back in derision. "_I'll_ be claiming the whore's head for myself!"

With that bravado said, McNair charged the Palace entrance, his comrades shouting for him to wait. Unfortunately, the man was too deeply entrenched in his own bloodlust, and several of the other equally wild Death Eaters made to join him.

None even made it to the dais of the entrance.

Just as the crowd of Death Eaters were about to keep shouting for McNair to come back once again, the man in question and all of those who had followed him were sent flying back past the crowd, landing roughly into the cobbled ground several metres behind the group of Death Eaters.

"What on earth?" asked Rodolphus as he turned his head to look at his fallen comrades.

"Brother! Look!"

Rodolphus turned back once again to look at his brother, who seemed stiff and in shock by something he'd seen. Following his brother's gaze, Rodolphus turned to look at the Palace front, only to see a young, redheaded woman standing in front of the palace. Wearing a very form-fitting dress, she had one arm extended to her right, some sort of energy crackling at her fingertips. It wasn't a stretch to conclude that she had been the one to send McNair flying back. But that wasn't what concerned Rodolphus.

No, what concerned him was that she had appeared out of nowhere.

"Aww….lookie the wittle girlie!" cooed Bellatrix Lestrange mockingly, her bravado instantly returning to her once her enemy had apparently shown up. "Thinks she can take on all of us, does she?"

The redhead said nothing. Instead, her eyes were half-opened, looking at the group with a calm serenity that made those like Bellatrix feel their blood boil. To them, it felt like the woman was underestimating them.

"Won't talk, eh?" noted Bellatrix, before an insane smile slipped onto her face. "Then I'll make you _scream!_"

With a bold cry, she launched herself towards the woman, about five Death Eaters right behind her. Rodolphus shouted for her to wait, but Bellatrix paid her husband no heed, instead relishing the opportunity to satisfy her bloodlust.

She was within striking distance of the woman, wand poised to curse the impertinent defender, when she noticed the woman looking up at her, the same serene look fixed on her face. A single word passed through the woman's lips, and that was all Bellatrix heard before she lost track of events around her.

"Weak."

Before the Death Eaters' eyes, Bellatrix was blown away by…_something_. None of them were quite sure what it was that had launched Bellatrix and her men flying back towards them helplessly. Then again, most had turned to look at Bellatrix's flying body, and so missed the horrified looks on Rodolphus, Avery, and Lucius' faces.

"T-That's impossible…" stuttered Rodolphus.

The redheaded woman was simply standing on the dais of the Palace entrance, one arm outstretched to her right, her hand clenched into a fist. That was when it clicked in the trio's minds. She hadn't used a spell. She hadn't even used a weapon. She had, quite literally, simply swatted away Bellatrix.

Some of the Death Eaters lost their nerve at seeing both McNair and Bellatrix so easily taken down and broke ranks, running away from the Palace. Rodolphus was quick to pick up on this, however, and turned to look at the retreating backs of his men with fury.

"Stand where you are!" he shouted in rage. "We didn't come all the way out here just to be beaten by some girl!"

"'Some girl'?"

Rodolphus barely had the chance to register that the woman, who had been standing a good dozen metres away, was now just in front of him, dwarfed in size by his own stature. She was, to his horror, looking right up at him.

"I don't think you're in any position to pass judgment, Lestrange," she said, before Rodolphus felt the wind get knocked out of him as he was launched right into the cluster of Death Eaters.

"Lestrange!" shouted Avery as he saw his comrade get roughly launched at his own men. Lucius and Rabastan echoed similar cries.

Only Rookwood tried to maintain his calm, pointing his wand at the woman quickly. "_Crucio!_" he hissed, launching the infamous torture curse at the woman.

With speed that left Rookwood floored, the woman disappeared from the spell's trajectory at the last second, reappearing in front of him in mid-air, already mid-spin into a roundhouse kick. The older man barely had a chance to exclaim his surprise before the woman's foot slammed into his jaw, sending him spinning into the ground. For all intents and purposes, Rookwood was out of the picture.

"One down," spoke the woman, before disappearing into thin air. She left behind a scene of utter chaos as the Death Eaters just realized that one of their commanders had been beaten to a pulp.

"Rookwood's down!" shouted Avery as he knelt by his comrade's limp body. "Not dead, but out cold!"

"Enervate him, then!" snapped Lucius as he tried to maintain order.

Avery tried so, but found he couldn't. "It's not working!"

Lucius glared at Avery and, thinking it simple incompetence on the man's part, snapped his wand towards Rookwood and sent his own Enervate spell at the man. To his surprise, nothing happened. "What the?"

"Satisfied I'm not incompetent, Malfoy?" sneered Avery. That Lucius had merely dismissed his spellwork as dubious had made the respected aristocrat bristle.

Lucius barely gave Avery a glance. "Something's definitely wrong," he concluded. "It's like he was hit by an Enervate-immune stunning spell."

Rabastan, busy trying to keep order, and somewhat torn about his brother's potential injuries, chanced a glance at Lucius. "There's got to be, what? Five of those in all existence?" he asked dubiously. "Who on earth would even know about them besides us? They're dark spells, those are!"

Avery rolled his eyes. "Thank you for that brilliantly useless drivel, Lestrange," he snarled. "If you're not going to help us, then keep the men in line!"

Rabastan completely broke his attention away from the panicking Death Eaters and instead favoured glaring openly at Avery. "Well excuse me fo—"

Before the man had a chance to finish his undoubtedly witty remark against his comrade, he felt his leg shatter in at least three different places and screamed for all he was worth in pain. The sudden, piercing scream caused the Death Eaters to stop panicking for a moment and focus on the new enemy at hand.

Standing a ways away from the group and posturing arrogantly was a humbly dressed man whose two hands seemed a mixture between human and wolf-like claws. A wicked grin was spread across the man's face as he regarding his screaming victim.

"I don't think you boys have the luxury of lowering your guard!" he taunted, before disappearing again. The Death Eaters lost all track of him again.

"That was Lupin!" hissed Lucius. "What the hell's going on?!" he raged.

"I would think that's quite obvious, Lucius," said a cocky voice behind him. Lucius turned his head slightly to see Remus Lupin crouching behind him, a glowing fist ready to be launched.

"I'm kicking your arse!"

Lucius' world went black as the fist connected with the small of his back, smack dab in the middle of his spine. The pain had been so instantly devastating that his mind had shut down and his eyes rolled up as he passed into unconsciousness. With a grin, Remus then disappeared into thin air.

_Now_ the Death Eaters were in total chaos. Besides Avery, all the other leaders of the incursion were out cold or injured.

"Shit!" swore Avery as he kept looking around him in panic. Between two people, the entire leadership of the Death Eaters group had been disabled. What the _hell_ was going on?

"Potter!" he screamed furiously. "I know you're out here somewhere!"

When no answer came, Avery purpled up in fury. "Come out and face us like a man, coward!"

Finally, something happened. To Avery's horrified surprise, Harry Potter strode out from seemingly nowhere towards them. It was as if he had phased into existence. His very walk put Avery on edge, too. He had his hands in his pockets, shoulders thrown back confidently, and he seemed to be regarding the panicking Death Eaters with barely concealed amusement.

"Calling me names, Avery?" asked Harry condescendingly. "How childish."

Avery snarled. "I'm going to _kill_ you, Potter!" he screamed. He was even more infuriated when all Harry did was smile with toleration.

"Don't use such strong words, Avery," he advised, before his entire countenance turned mockingly dark. "It only makes your weakness _that_ much more obvious."

Avery screamed incoherently as he flung a Killing Curse at Harry, who easily sidestepped it. Five more such curses were quickly cast, but all of them Harry evaded with obvious ease.

"I'm disappointed, Avery," called out Harry. "I would have thought the Death Eaters had improved over the years—expanded their repertoire and tactics a bit."

Avery snarled. "I don't see you doing any better than at the beginning of the war!" he raged. "All you did was get lucky!" He threw another curse, just as easily dodged by Harry.

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Really? Is that what you think?" he asked in amusement, sidestepping another curse. "Did it perhaps not occur to you, Avery, that you've been manipulated all these years?"

Something in Harry's smile as he'd said those words had made Avery freeze. A cold chill went down the Death Eater's spine as he contemplated what he remembered about the war. Certainly, after having secured victory after victory, something had started to go wrong, and nothing after that seemed to go right.

What was it?

"Shall I tell you?" asked Harry, surprising Avery as he appeared right in front of his face. Avery made to punch at Harry, but already the younger man had disappeared and reappeared a fair distance away.

"What are you trying to say, Potter?" asked Avery cautiously. "That you've always been one step ahead of us? That you've known our plans before even we did?" Avery snorted derisively. "Absurd. Our Strategist got you good twice. You're full of shite, Potter."

Harry's smile didn't leave. "I assume you refer to the coup and Panama?" he asked rhetorically, despite knowing he was right on target. Avery sneered in response, and Harry took that for a positive. "It's true that the coup caught me off-guard," he admitted. "But did it never strike you as odd that the Queen of the newly reformed British Empire was traveling around the world with such a pathetic escort?"

Avery froze once again. It was true—he _had_ harboured some confusion over that fact when Rodolphus had emptily boasted about the failed raid at a Council meeting. It had seemed too easy to him, too simple. He had fought Imperials for years, and knew that they weren't that careless with their generals, so why did their most important VIP tour the world with not even a single Airship escorting her? It had made no sense, but Avery had pushed it out of his mind at the time. Now, he was reminded of it full-force.

"Decoy?" he mumbled absently, trying to reason what had happened. In front of him, following him in his circling moves, Harry merely smiled in toleration.

"Please," scoffed Harry. "Why would I travel with a decoy and present them to the Emperor of Japan, or the Confederate Parliament?" he asked. "That would have been a huge insult. I assure you, she was the real deal."

Avery narrowed his eyes. "Then what was that all about?"

Harry grinned ferociously. "Think about it, Avery. What did we gain from Rodolphus' absurd raid?"

Avery thought that one through. He hated to admit it, but Potter was bringing to light many answers to discrepancies he had noticed over the course of the war. Things that made no sense suddenly began to make sense. And he wasn't liking the answers one bit.

"Allies," Harry stated simply, deciding to help Avery along as one would a slow child. "And resolve."

Avery nearly stumbled over himself. Was he hearing correctly? Had Potter just admitted that the reason the raid had occurred at all was because Potter himself had wanted to put the Confederacy into a position where it would ally itself with the Empire? And what did he mean by resolve?

"What do you mean by resolve?" asked Avery, enunciating his last thought.

Harry smiled. "Panama changed our Queen," he explained. "Before that, she was a scared child, traumatized by her experiences at the hands of Jugson. Panama shod her of that." Harry laughed now, even as he calmly paced in circles with Avery, who had his wand trained on him. "I really should thank Rodolphus, too. Everything went so well that he singlehandedly forged a Queen of steel from a child of scraps."

Avery was floored by what he was hearing. Potter had deliberately allowed a raid to occur on a neutral power in order to secure an ally. More than that, he had confessed to letting the Empire's monarch be attacked in order to steel her for her job. In essence, he had made the Death Eaters do his dirty work for him!

"Stunned?" asked Harry with a grin. "I haven't even begun to tell you how played you've been."

Despite his mounting rage, Avery felt his curiosity get the better of him. "What do you mean?" It was a strange feeling, this oddly civil conversation they were having. Well, it's not like his men were doing any better—they were still running around like confused, scared chickens.

"Tell me, hasn't the Council seemed a bit…erratic to you lately?" asked Harry with a knowing smile.

Avery stopped moving entirely this time. No. It wasn't possible. What Potter was suggesting was simply _not_ possible. They would have noticed. They would have seen through any erratic behaviour.

"You don't seem to believe me, Avery," noted Harry, having himself stopped as well. "But didn't it seem odd to you that the infamous Council of Death, supposedly a far more even-tempered organization than Voldemort himself, ordered this suicide raid mere hours after the bulk of your forces were destroyed _at this very location_?" he pointed out gleefully. "Or that the main attack was done with such sketchy information?"

Harry laughed openly now, garnering the attention of the panicking Death Eaters as well as Avery. "You had nothing! You had a location, at best! You found our outposts when you invaded, and then by sheer luck!" he told them in between fits of laughter. It was such a maddening, cruel sound that it made the Death Eaters shiver. Not since the Dark Lord had they felt such terror. "Where was the planning of the Council? Where was the logistical preparations you took to take Egypt away from us? Or Canada? Or the Isles?"

Harry grinned evilly at Avery's mounting horror. "I'll tell you where it was…" he said slyly, before he jerked forward, eyes maddeningly wide and a malicious grin in place. "It was dead and buried!" Avery's eyes bulged at the revelation, and he felt his jaw drop as he realized the full impact of what Harry was saying. "Dead! Replaced by men under my command!" continued Harry in triumphant glee. "Right after Panama, we found the Council and butchered them! Replaced them with fakes! And you never noticed!"

Avery was desperate to deny the assertions made by Potter, but he quickly found himself reasoning that everything he'd just said was entirely plausible. The Council had never shown themselves personally to the top ranks of the Death Eaters, or the lower ranks for that matter. All conversation had taken place by proxy—and everyone had reasoned that this was the safest method to protect their lives from assassination.

"Where…?"

Harry grinned at Avery's incomplete question. "In the mountains of Wales," he answered knowingly. "No one you knew, I'm sure. They were just ambitious Death Eaters who took advantage of the power vacuum."

Avery could feel his spirit being destroyed. Everything for the past few years had been a total failure, and that was because of the man before him. The people he'd followed had been nameless and faceless to him, and yet they had provided guidance when the Dark Lord was obviously not going to come back. Now, they were dead, the fleet was obliterated, and they were on the run globally. Avery just wanted to collapse onto the ground and give up.

Harry grinned. He knew he was so close to achieving his goal. Putting his hand on his sword hilt, he slowly drew the magnificent silver blade until it was held up horizontally in front of him. "Shall I tell you a last secret, Avery?" he asked.

"What else could you possibly tell me, Potter?" asked Avery, defeatism obvious in his voice. "What else could you possibly rob us of?"

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Are you not curious how my people have singlehandedly taken out so many of your own?"

Avery's eyes snapped up to look at Potter, and he had to admit that what Potter was offering was incredibly alluring. Information on how he'd beaten the top echelons of the Death Eaters. He knew the information had little worth for a dead man, but if he was going to die, he didn't want to die wondering. "How?" he asked finally.

Harry smiled. "Do you know how our kind uses magic? Where the power comes from?" he asked.

Avery scoffed. "Everyone knows that. Our blood," he sneered, despite his predicament.

Harry laughed. "Ironically enough, that is so," he agreed. "But it's much more complicated than just being an issue of blood purity. Rather, it has to do with microscopic organisms that serve rather like a lightning rod in a thunderstorm," he explained. "With me so far?"

Avery nodded slowly. He had a small grasp of basic science, partially due to the fact that he had once felt curious about Muggle science when the war had begun. He had quickly given up, though, but not before learning the basics of biology.

Harry grinned. "Good, good. These organisms have no name within the old Magical World," he continued, noticing he had gained the rapt attention of the mass of Death Eaters as well. "But Bill Weasley, the man who first discovered them, calls them Magic Receptors, or MR."

Avery frowned. He had no idea where Potter was going with this; who cared about how wizards were able to do magic?

"These Receptors, however, have a maximum capacity of usage, much like anything else," continued Harry, who was well aware that Avery was losing his patience. "Meaning that if you overuse them, you experience Magical Exhaustion, which is a documented state in the old Magical World."

Avery stayed silent now, trying to figure out where Potter was going with this. Thus undeterred, Harry ploughed on. He seemed like he was thoroughly enjoying himself with the situation. "Is there no way to increase that limit, however?" he asked. "Is there no way to breach that barrier?"

'_Of course not!_' wanted to scream Avery. '_Everyone knows there's a limit to one's powers!_'

Harry's expression made Avery doubt this, however. The patient, tolerant smile had turned dark and evil. "There is."

Avery was shell-shocked by what Potter had just said. A way to force open the limits of one's magical ability? Was Potter _mad_? Such a thing was impossible!

Harry raised one finger on his free hand, the other still holding up his sword horizontally. "But there is only one way," he continued, unfazed by Avery's horrified look. "And that is to acquire a CO.R.E."

Avery frowned, despite himself. "A core?"

Harry nodded. "Conduit for Restructured Energy, known as CO.R.E.," he elaborated. "A biomechanical, cell-like organism that is implanted into our bodies via diffusion."

Avery frowned again. "I…I don't understand," he admitted shamefully.

Harry grinned. "Instead of having those lightning rods in our blood, we now have them throughout every inch of our bodies."

The implications of such a statement were not lost on Avery, and that made the normally composed aristocrat to take a shocked step back. His men, unfortunately, could not comprehend the sheer _heresy_ that Potter had just confessed to performing.

"Th-that's impossible!" he refused to believe such a thing could happen.

Harry grinned; he knew Avery would react this way. Despite being a Death Eater, Harry knew that Avery was also the most adaptable of the bunch, willing to take on technology to serve his needs if necessary. As such, he would have far better comprehension of the subject at hand than any other of the upper echelon Death Eaters.

"Of course," continued Harry, "because of the sheer magnitude of organisms acquired into our bodies, these organisms had the unforeseen consequence of forming a separate sentience. In other words, our CO.R.E.'s are, in a sense of the word, alive."

Avery, despite his disgust at what Potter had done, felt nonetheless curious about this revelation. What point was there in him knowing this? Who cared if the process created a live entity? It was all heresy to him.

"So?" vocalized Avery, his disgust apparent.

Harry smiled indulgently. "You don't get it, do you?" he asked rhetorically. "The fact that the organisms create a sentient life form means that not everyone can be infused with this new power. Only a very small percentage can, actually," he explained. Avery didn't know why that made him feel a little better, but it did. "Furthermore, for those it _does_ take to, the consciousness of our CO.R.E.'s takes the form of a tool of our choosing--most of us choosing a weapon of some kind. However, for those of us that it _does_ take to, it brings an increase in power equalling five to ten times the maximum _potential_ limit of the user's magic."

An incredulous whimper wanted to leave Avery's mouth at that point. _Five to ten times?!_ Such an increase would make them the most powerful beings on the planet! Then again, recalling how quickly his colleagues had been decimated, it was not such a stretch of the imagination.

"And so…" Harry continued, though taking on an air of finality as he lay his free hand flat against the point of the blade where it met the hilt, "…we are forced to acquire our CO.R.E.'s submission before we can use it, and must order it into activation."

"Thus," Harry's tone softened now, lowering itself to barely a whisper, and yet Avery heard every word. He watched as Harry slid his hand right across the blade and off it in one, smooth action, all the while saying,

"_Shatter, Durendal._"

Glass breaking.

That was the only way Avery could describe the sound that he heard the moment the last word had passed through Potter's mouth. All around him, it was as if the very fabric of reality had shattered like glass and was falling apart, revealing another world behind it.

Even as Potter remained constant in Avery's field of vision, the surroundings did not. Where they had seen an abandoned, but otherwise undamaged city, they now saw the expected signs of combat. He could still see the smoke pillar from where the Death Eater dragons had caused havoc. He could still see the blood spatters on the cobblestones at his feet. Bodies littered the ground, and for some reason, this death-filled reality made Avery feel better. It made sense.

What's more, the opposition they had expected when they had Portkeyed in was exactly where they expected them to be. Around them. Surrounding them.

Barricaded along the edges of the entire Imperial Square, the Imperial forces had their guns trained on them, ready to fire. Wizards as well were part of the barricade, and Avery could tell that there was no way they could escape. The wards he felt click into being the moment the illusion had been shattered were so strong and so complete that merely attempting Apparation or Portkeying would merely serve to give them all massive migraines.

Potter, for his part, was still wielding that sword of his, though it seemed to Avery that the blade had changed. As Potter brought it down diagonally in a slow, practiced move, Avery confirmed his suspicion. Where it had once been a simple, straight blade, it was now curved at the end, and intricate designs had been carved along the blade. Furthermore, the blade itself seemed serrated, which Avery knew could make any wound it caused fatal, if not just painful.

"My sword, Durendal," Harry introduced to Avery. "Not the original Durendal, of course—that one's lost to the ages. Nonetheless, my CO.R.E took a liking to the name, and chose it for itself," explained Harry. "As you can no doubt tell, my energy has been amplified several times over," he continued nonchalantly, as if lecturing students. "However, what I failed to mention was that each CO.R.E. also has the odd trait that each has a different, unique ability that best suits the wielder."

Harry smiled. "As you could no doubt tell, mine is the power of 'total illusion.'" Harry told Avery. "I can make the victim believe _anything_ I want them to," he explained calmly.

"Such as?" sneered Avery, though he already had a good guess.

Harry's smile did not falter. "That a besieged city was intact and empty," he suggested, referring to the Death Eater's previous predicament. "That people are appearing and disappearing after knocking your men out," again, what had happened before. Harry's smile became dark again. "That my allies are really your allies."

Avery, not for the first time, and he suspected not the last, froze up. What did that mean? Which of their allies had been betraying them? How long had the Death Eaters known and done nothing because of Potter's illusion?

Seeing that Avery was so desperate to know, Harry smiled and snapped his fingers. Almost instantly, a hole was made in the barricade behind him as the people let someone through. Avery looked like he torn between wanting to cry or rage as he saw the identity of the turncoat.

"I believe you're familiar with Fleet Admiral Clarke of the United States Navy and Air Fleet, correct?" asked Harry tauntingly. "The good Admiral has been a valuable ally of the Empire since right after Salt Lake City. A more valuable informant, I couldn't find."

"You flatter me, Field Marshal," intoned the man in question as he came to stand by Harry's side. Disgust was obvious in his gaze as he looked at Avery. "I merely did what my conscience demanded. I couldn't bear to allow my country to fall deeper into this…disgusting partnership with these animals."

"Well said, Admiral, well said," lauded Harry with a grin. Avery knew this entire conversation was designed to rile him up, but he just couldn't get the hatred up to curse them, or even to move. His spirit had just been totally shattered. Everything had gone so wrong. Everything they had tried to achieve was in ruins.

This was their victory.

Harry nodded to Clarke, and the man bowed shortly to Harry before making his way back to the barricade. Once the man was safely back amongst his men, Harry turned to face Avery. "Goodbye, Avery. Your cause, our enemies…everything ends today."

With that, Harry turned and walked into the barricade, even as Avery sank to his knees, defeated. The Death Eaters, realizing that they were about to die, began to panic once again, throwing random spells around in the hopes of getting free, but all were blocked by either the barricades, or the shields the Imperial wizards brought up.

As Harry walked away, he could heard the commands being shouted along the barricade, and smiled.

"Ready!"

Harry turned his mind to his next, final step. Only one enemy remained.

"Aim!"

The Death Eaters were throwing themselves on the ground, now, begging for their lives. The Imperials took no note of them.

Harry, for his part, kept his mind on his last enemy as he walked through the massive doors to the palace, which were promptly shut behind him.

"_FIRE!_"

Even as the rolling thunder of the barricade's almost simultaneous fire ended the life of the Death Eater movement, only one name stayed at the forefront of Harry's worries.

One last battlefield, one last step, one last enemy.

Hogwarts.

Siege.

Voldemort.

* * *

_Post-AN: For the record, yes, Admiral Clarke is the man who led the US fleet against Hawke and Harry at Salt Lake City. Thus, in a way, he's the man responsible for Hawke's death. Harry, however, is a pragmatist, and time has served to help him recover from the emotional wound of seeing his friend die._


	31. Interlude: The Phoenix's Cry

_AN: Another interlude before the final few chapters! This one is Elizabeth-centric, so as to explore more in depth the monarch for whom all the people you've seen fight so far are fighting for. I hope you enjoy it! - MB_

_Also, grats to Harlequin320 on being the first to ask whether Project Valkyrie is the project that created the CO.R.E.'s. The answer is: Yes, it is._

_I was disappointed, however, that no one questioned the power of Harry's CO.R.E. I mean, I think I've established he's powerful, but not so powerful as to maintain an illusion thousands of miles away. Therefore, his claiming of making the Death Eaters believe that Clarke was on their side was a fib--Clark was just that good an actor and informant._

_Why did I choose to have Harry claim this? Simply because it fit into Harry's intent to psychologically destroy the willpower of the remaining Death Eaters. If they thought he was so powerful as to maintain an illusion over thousands of people thousands of miles away, they would simply give up, feeling hopeless after the loss of their own strongest fighters._

_It's how Harry works. In order to lower his own casualties, he makes sure the backbone of the enemy is shattered to minimize resistance._

_Hope that clears things up. Cheers!  
_

* * *

_Our greatest glory is not in never failing, but in rising up every time we fail. – Ralph Waldo Emerson_

* * *

Chaos.

That was the only real way to describe the scene before James Potter as he looked out his office door. Everyone within the Imperial Department of Logistics and Transportation was going crazy in order to meet the insanely close deadlines for the mobilization of the entire army. That Harry had not chosen to publicly divulge the plans to the trap that had killed the Death Eaters made it worse—making for weeks, if not _months_ of paperwork that needed to be filed retroactively.

Already he had needed to approve of 52 leaves of absences after the people in question had broken down in tears at the workload awaiting them. Mobilizing an army, after all, was a damn hard thing to do, and the paperwork that came with it was just evil. That, to top everything, they had to then do it _again_ in order to mobilize the resources necessary to launch a massive invasion into Scotland…well, that was just spiteful.

Still, it was their job to do it, and so James did it.

"Oi, Patterson!" he shouted out his office. "Where's that damn form I asked half an hour ago?!"

"Patterson's gone, chief!" replied another of his subordinates. "McLean noticed we ran out of the L-76 Forms and had him fetch some more!"

James goggled. "But I asked for an IG-43 Form!" he protested, bewildered. The man shrugged.

"Perkins' division ran out of the L-76 Forms two hours ago, it was Patterson's turn to fetch new ones," noted yet another subordinate as he passed by, trying to be helpful.

"Who's going to get me the L-76 Form, then?" asked James. "If I don't get that one done soon, we're going to be working overtime _again_ if we're going to be able to work on the J-99 Forms tomorrow!"

Most of his staff blanched at the thought, and James could have sworn he heard a sob or two. He dearly hoped he didn't have to give any more leaves of absences, otherwise they'd be short staffed.

And for a Civil Service department, that was saying something.

"LARAMIE!" yelled one of his division chiefs. "Get the boss an L-76 Form _NOW!_"

"But I'm working on the MS-54 Forms!" complained the man in question. "Can't Holden do it?"

"Can't!" shouted Holden as he barrelled past James, a stack of papers about half his height in his arms. "Crews will have my head if I'm anymore late in giving in these forms!"

James just couldn't bring himself to be surprised at the absolute chaos in his office.

"Smith is back!" came the cry. "Looks like more papers, boys!"

A collective whimper rang through the room. Most of them had lost all feeling in their hands, given the enormity of the task at hand. "Patterson is back too!"

That sounded promising. "What's he doing?" asked James loudly.

"Looks like he's headed towards Perkins' division, boss!" replied the subordinate on lookout duty. "No, wait, Jackson's got to him. Looks like he's going back to his car!"

James sighed in irritation. "Is _anyone_ able to get me that damn form?" he growled.

"Hey, I can see Undersecretary Haussmann!"

James brightened up. His second in command was back! Maybe now he could get some work done.

"No, wait, Jackson's got to him, too! He's headed towards Peterson's division!"

"What the hell is Jackson even doing in the parking lot?!" demanded James. "Someone go and tell him to clear out before I introduce him to the business end of my wand!"

"Who, boss?" Laramie asked rhetorically as he whizzed by, arms chock-full of forms. "We're all so busy, it's a damn miracle we can even _leave_ the room."

"_SOMEONE JUST GET ME THAT DAMN FORM!_" he roared.

A piece of paper falling on James' desk caught his attention. It was, as he had requested, the IG-43 form. He was about to thank the person responsible when the thanks died in his throat, replaced by constant choking as he gazed upon the Queen herself, who had let herself in and had listened and observed the chaos in the Ministry.

"M-Majesty!" he croaked out finally, bowing low to the Head of State of the Empire.

The 16-year old monarch had an ironic smile on her lips as she watched James Potter almost fall over himself trying to apologize for the chaos in the Ministry. It was always so amusing to watch the normally unflappable and almost mythic Potter family members act human.

"I figured I should observe the workings of my Ministries," she gave by way of explanation when prompted by James. "After all, what kind of monarch has no idea how their own country works?"

She had to refrain from glowing with pleasure when James smiled approvingly at her. The Potters had always made her feel somewhat inferior and unneeded, especially as they essentially _ran_ the government behind the scenes. In the army was the legendary Harry Potter, scion and heir of the Potter family, and a Duke in his own right. In the Ministries were James Potter and Ginny Potter; the former the Minister of Logistics and Transportation, and the latter the wife of Harry Potter and the top spy and assassin in the Imperial Department of Military and Civilian Information. Then, in Parliament, was Matthew Potter, the oldest of the adopted twins that James and Lily had taken in; Matthew was, in his own right, an elected Independent, but always seemed to be able to sway Parliament one way or another with his stirring rhetoric.

So where did she, the Queen, come in?

It was a question that plagued her so much, so often, that she wondered at times that she had not gone mad. Though she was not powerless, and her influence still counted for something, she saw how most of Parliament or her ministers simply looked towards the Potters for directions. The only one who didn't, obviously enough, was Dumbledore—but then the old wizard had been a staunch opponent of both hers and the Potters' since the very beginning. Well, at least he'd been behaving himself.

The Queen snorted softly to herself as she walked out of the Ministry, still entertaining that thought. Dumbledore certainly had the ability to make others believe that he was harmless. Ever since his speedy fall from grace, he had retreated from the limelight and was covertly rebuilding his influence, if her sources were correct. That didn't mean he was a threat to her, or to the Potters, though; if anything, his following contained none of the previous Order, and consisted mainly of the few wizards and witches that quietly resented the union of the magical and real world, even if they would never admit it openly.

That, of course, meant Dumbledore had to be watched a little more than usual, but otherwise meant nothing drastic had to be done.

She smiled at the carriage driver as the young man helped her into the open-aired vehicle. She was not a particular fan of cars, and since it was quick enough to move around Harrisburg by walking (which most did), she had insisted that if she _had_ to have a mode of transportation that had wheels, she chose a carriage. It was slow enough that she could easily order it to stop and so talk to her people, and yet quick enough that getting to the Central Island wouldn't take more than fifteen minutes—ten, if she had the driver go fast.

Elizabeth had to repress a giggle as the handsome young man blushed at her smile. She was well aware of the reaction that men her age had towards her, and while she had fun teasing them, she always knew not to take it too far. She was, after all, unmarried still, and knew better than to alienate her people by becoming a loose woman.

She kept a dignified posture as the open carriage wheeled through the streets of Harrisburg, every once in a while waving at her people, who cheered or shouted out "God save the Queen!" as she passed by.

It was so weird, she thought to herself as she was wheeled by her people. It was nothing like how London had been. Instead of seeing just men and women in suits or in varied, sometimes absurdly revealing, clothing, her people had seemingly regressed in fashion. It was difficult to conciliate the past with her present, but even she was unsure as to whether this was a bad thing. After all, the people in Harrisburg seemed to her to be much happier.

Perhaps regression in some aspects was a good thing, she reasoned. After all, change for the sake of change seemed more like playing Russian Roulette than a logical course of action.

She broke from her thoughts as the carriage went by a gaggle of schoolchildren who seemed to be on an outing of some sort with their teacher. Elizabeth had been singled out by the teacher, and now the children were waving at her excitedly, much to Elizabeth's amusement. She quietly ordered the driver to stop, and was helped down from the carriage, her cyan coloured dress billowing slightly in the pleasant, noon breeze.

With a smile, she approached the children, and a subtle nod to the teacher told the woman it was okay to let the children near her. Her security detail, she knew, would be watching discreetly anyway. She wouldn't have been surprised to know that they were already close by, in fact.

The young, teenaged monarch smiled and laughed with the children as the little ones bombarded her with their innocent questions. Even the girls seemed to like Elizabeth, commenting how pretty her dress was, or how pretty she was in general. The male kids, for their part, seemed to have cute crushes on her, trying their best to get her attention with all sorts of antics that made the Queen giggle.

She loved children. Even in the darkest of times, they could find almost insatiable energy. They were always curious, asking questions and poking around. She often wondered how much farther the human race would have advanced if everyone retained that childish curiosity throughout their lives, instead of settling for a monotonous routine.

Soon, a cough from her driver discreetly informed her that it was time to go, as she had an appointment to attend to. Smiling at the children, she apologized as she informed them she had to leave, to their dismay—they had liked the funny, pretty older sister. They all waved at her in farewell enthusiastically as her carriage moved on, with Elizabeth smilingly waving back until they were out of sight.

Elizabeth sighed in pleasure at the moment she had been allowed to take with the children. After all, it was rare, if even that, to see children in the Palace. Only whenever Ginny and Harry couldn't find a babysitter did they bring their adorable little daughter with them. The redheaded, jade-eyed daughter of the Duke and Duchess was also intimate friends with her normally stoic guards, she had found out, and most of them seemed to enjoy the future Duchess' presence.

"Majesty, we're here."

Elizabeth looked at her surroundings to see that they had indeed arrived at the Imperial Ministry of War and Defence. There was simply no mistaking the huge building which housed the administrative and operational headquarters of the Imperial war machine. Courteously let down from her carriage by her driver, Elizabeth daintily made her way towards the Ministry double doors, which were opened by the guards on duty well before she arrived. Both of them saluted their Queen as she passed by, and she returned the sign of respect with a courteous nod, her driver right behind her.

"Ah, Majesty!" Elizabeth looked ahead to see a man in his early forties striding towards her, an amiable smile on his face. It was Undersecretary Guiles.

"Mister Undersecretary," acknowledged Elizabeth politely, her driver giving the Undersecretary a short nod.

"It's so good to see you in good health, Majesty!" gushed the man, either really meaning it, or proving what a consummate actor he was. "You are undoubtedly here for the inspection?"

Elizabeth nodded. "I was advised that an appearance during the mobilization would go to great effects in raising morale," she told Guiles. "How much of the army is ready for departure?" she then asked.

Guiles shrugged as he led the Queen towards a room containing a large, round, metallic platform on the ground with a white cross made up of four daggers imprinted on the middle of it. "About twenty to twenty-five percent are deployed, Majesty. Our docks are working as fast as they can to get the ships resupplied and garrisoned with their designated troop loads."

Elizabeth nodded as she joined Guiles on the platform, her driver by her side. "Then full deployment should be ready—"

A short humming noise could be heard throughout the room before the three disappeared.

They then reappeared on a similar platform in a vastly different room.

"—by when, exactly?" finished the young monarch, as if used to this sort of transportation.

Guiles, too, seemed unshaken by the travel, although the Queen's driver seemed a bit queasy. Instead, he continued to lead the Queen off the platform, and towards the room beyond the door. "We should be done within the week, Majesty."

Elizabeth nodded once, and then put on a smile as she walked through the door to the far larger room on the other side. Everywhere, people were running around getting things done. The entire room was bustling with activity, and only those who passed nearby managed to get out of their tunnel vision to notice the Queen had arrived. Not that she blamed those that didn't—Elizabeth was well aware that the preparations for such massive mobilization would require and didn't begrudge them the focus they had. In fact, she admired their dedication.

Guiles led her to the windows at the front of the room, where the 50 or so Air Traffic Controllers were seated and were directing the horde of Imperial Airships in the air. Elizabeth for a moment wondered whether the orders for other ships could be heard by the people in the Airships, since the gaggle of orders were nearly deafening to her.

Once at the windows, and after a few cries of "Majesty!", Guiles swept his arms in front of him, as if introducing to her the vastness of her armed forces. "Here we are, Majesty!" he told her happily. "The full force of your Imperial might!"

Elizabeth smiled faintly at the man, who she knew meant well, but talked in a way that could be said to border on arrogance. She then focused her attention on the organized chaos down in the massive docks. All along the massive complex, she could see the long rectangles of the army Divisions marching up and down the pathways to the docked Airships. The ships themselves, moored to the docks, were massive in their own right, easily dwarfing their passengers several times over.

The people on the ground looked like ants to her, indicating just how far up the room was. She couldn't even make out a single cannon on the Airships, further indication of just how _massive_ they were.

"Which unit is embarking there?" she asked, motioning to the rectangle of men and women in question. They were in the process of marching up the boarding ramp to the Airship _HMIS Hunter_.

Guiles looked pointedly at one of the controllers, who quickly looked it up and relayed it to the Undersecretary. "That would part of the Second Legion, Majesty."

Elizabeth nodded, her eyes on the group of soldiers as they slowly (well, to her sight anyway) made their way up the ramp. She couldn't help but feel sadness sweep over her. They were going to fight yet _another_ foe in her name. That very idea made her feel guilty for all the deaths the Empire had suffered so far. After all, whenever these men and women charged the enemy, they often had _her_ name on their lips. How many accounts had she heard of soldiers shouting, "For the Queen!" before their lives were cut short? How many had she heard had said, "I die for my Queen!"?

It tore at her heart, whenever she heard the stories. Certainly, she never showed more grief than was acceptable—after all, the people wanted a leader, not a blubbering mess. A humane leader, of course, but a leader nonetheless. The truth was, it ate at her heart a lot more than she showed whenever the reports of deaths came up.

To her credit, her conviction had not faltered despite it all. Instead, it cemented itself and refined itself into fine steel. Every death she heard of she merely put it on a mental list and saw them as one more person giving their lives for a better future. The Empire was right, she knew, and winning the war would be a huge step in propelling the human race into an age of prosperity. The only qualms she had was the high human toll they had to pay for that age of prosperity.

She turned her attention back to Guiles, who was seemingly content with letting the Queen inspect her troops, even if from a great distance away. Obviously, the man thought he had fulfilled his duties, and had done so well. Elizabeth couldn't fault him that train of thought. He had been courteous and differential towards her—carrying out protocol to the very last detail. She had no doubt that he would rise beyond the rank of Undersecretary some day.

"Where will I be addressing the troops?" she asked suddenly. Guiles seemed taken aback at her question. After all, it wasn't in the program.

"A-Address, Majesty?" he stuttered slightly, before quickly recovering. "But there was no such thing on the agenda!"

Yes, the man would rise fast within the Civil Service, Elizabeth had no doubt. A consummate by-the-book man.

"I am here, Mister Guiles," she reminded him. "And my people are about to march to war, where their lives may be lost. I think the least I can do is remind them that the Empire stands behind them to the very last."

Guiles had the decency to look ashamed, even though it was so brief it couldn't have lasted more than three seconds. He quickly rallied himself and seemed to delve into deep thought, as though considering the necessary steps to carry out the Queen's request. In fact, that was exactly what the greying man was doing.

"I suppose we could set up an impromptu rally down at the docks…" he conceded slowly. "It will take about two hours, though, Majesty. Are you sure you would be alright waiting that long?" he asked.

Elizabeth nodded firmly. "I have a duty to my people, Mister Guiles. If I cannot protect them all, then I must at least remind them that we stand together, even if not physically so."

Guiles nodded again, this time quickly, in a show of hasty agreement. Personally, he found the Queen's motives admirable, but the paperwork that would have to be done…oh dear, he didn't fancy telling his subordinates what was about to come their way. And Lord Potter would have to be informed…

Elizabeth was well attended to during the two hours it took to prepare everything. She had been shown to a nicely-furnished room, where she and her driver were waited on by a young woman who was obviously used to waitressing. To the girl's surprise (and maybe a bit of frustration), the Queen asked for nothing, perfectly content in waiting until the preparations were done. As a way to pass time more quickly, however, the Queen did engage the young waitress in curious conversation.

"…well, I can't say I really had this in mind when I graduated from college," admitted the young woman when prompted by the Queen. "But it's good pay, good hours, and occasionally good people."

Elizabeth smiled ironically. "I imagine that there are bad people included as well?" she asked knowingly.

The young waitress rolled her eyes. "Of course, Your Majesty," she agreed before sniffing derisively. "Pigs, the lot of 'em. Not enough I bring them their drink, they also feel the need to try and grab some!"

The Queen's driver seemed scandalized by the woman's uncouth words, but the Queen waved him off, finding the woman's refreshingly candid manner. "Have you spoken to your superior about it?" she asked.

The young woman rolled her eyes again, momentarily forgetting that her conversation partner wasn't her best friend, and they weren't at a pub. "'Course I have! What'd ya think he said? 'Nothing for it, unfortunately. Those men keep the docks runnin'!' is what he said!" she relayed to the Queen. "As if there aren't more decent blokes around strutting with loads of cash."

The Queen nodded along with the woman's complaint. Truthfully, she felt her heart go out for this young woman, whatever else she did outside of work. Sexual harassment stung the Queen particularly bad, and she was most zealous in her efforts to see it eradicated.

The conversation went on for the two hours it took for Guiles to come back, at which point, the Queen's driver seemed unnaturally thankful for the interruption. Any more of the two women talking and he would have broken down, so viciously were his sensibilities attacked. As the Queen passed by the bowing waitress, she quickly whispered some words that seemed to have a soothing and pleased effect on the young woman.

"Thank you, Majesty," had said the waitress before the Queen left the room entirely. Guiles had looked at the young monarch oddly for a moment, but decided to leave well enough alone. Instead, the professional bureaucrat led the Queen to an elevator, and then waited for the machine to take them down to ground level, something which took an amazing twenty seconds only.

There, Guiles led the Queen onto the docks, and Elizabeth was slightly taken aback by the sudden onrush of sea winds, bringing with them a distinctly salty smell. As they left the building proper, Elizabeth couldn't help but admire the massive frames of the Airships that made up her Air Fleet. They towered over her ominously, and she could feel a very sober appreciation for their destructive power.

"Over there, Majesty," pointed out Guiles, motioning to the hastily built platform near a growing crowd of soldiers. "The word has been circulated amongst the troops, and quite a few divisions have sworn to show up."

Elizabeth nodded, pleased, as she made her way to the platform and there took a seat, while Guiles moved forward towards the microphone. The soldiers had begun to buzz excitedly at the sight of their monarch, and Guiles was pleased to see that the Queen was happy with that.

Guiles knew he didn't have to do much to introduce the Queen, given who she was and the fact that they all knew her by face, at least. So, giving quick thanks for the attendance (even as more and more servicemen joined the crowd by the second), Guiles quickly handed over the stage to Elizabeth, who rose gracefully to her feet. As the two passed each other, Guiles gave a deferential bow and Elizabeth nodded back, sharply noticing that Guiles had tucked his hand in his pocket and hearing a clicking sound—a voice recorder, no doubt. She guessed that the recipient would probably be James Potter, since he was the Potter member in charge (albeit unofficially so) of overseeing and influencing the Ministries.

Once at the microphone, Elizabeth hesitated for a second before starting to speak. She knew she was nowhere near as rallying as the Duke in her oratory, but she also knew that to allow him to continue being the public face of the Empire meant that she would never get out from under his shadow. That, she could not allow. She was no one's pawn.

"My dear people," she started, her tone soothing and gentle; as a mother would speak to her children. Outside observers would have noted the oddity of this, considering the Queen was several years younger than most Imperial servicemen, but for some reason, it seemed to work for Elizabeth. "I thank you for taking the time to listen to my words, simple and candid as they may be."

"I am no great orator," she admitted to her people. "I am not the Duke, who can raise your spirits with a few words. I am but a girl of sixteen summers of age, and some of you have children older than I."

Guiles was feeling some worry now. Was it wise for the Queen to so heavily deprecate herself in public? It could form a blow against the institution of the Monarchy!

"But that matters little," she then said, taking Guiles by surprise. "I am not a common child. I did not have a common childhood. I was kidnapped, beaten, abused, and raped by the very men and women you fought for so long to defeat," she continued, and she could feel the righteous anger and horror rising in the soldiers before her at the mention of the crimes the Death Eaters had committed on their Queen. Many had speculated, but no one had given any confirmation, and now the Queen had, in few words, made real all the rumours that had circulated throughout the Empire. "…and for that, I owe you all a debt I will never be able to repay fully."

"I cannot fight as one of you, for I am not trained in combat," she continued, bravely, in Guiles' opinion, considering how weak and frail she was portraying herself to be. "And so I give you the one gift I can offer: solace."

That confused the elder bureaucrat. What could she possibly mean?

"All too often, brave men and women like yourselves fail in your duties not because you cannot do your jobs, but because the people you defend will not support you, and instead vilify you. I will not allow such a thing to happen," she declared. "Though you will be thousands of miles away, always know that Britannia will always support her most loyal sons and daughters! When the war is finally over, when peace finally returns, we will be waiting for you all with open arms and love, not scorn and ridicule!"

"You will not starve! You will not grow cold!" she declared firmly. "We will not allow it! On my Crown, I swear to you all that the Empire will look after you to the very last!"

Elizabeth felt some satisfaction when the soldiers in the crowd began to clap, some cheering at her as well. She knew it was nowhere near the rising speeches made by the Duke, but she had tried, and seemingly succeeded in doing her part. She was only sixteen, after all, and had still a lot to learn.

Behind her, Guiles had a different opinion of the events he had just seen. While the Queen saw a minor success, Guiles saw much more—he saw a hegemon in the rising. Turning off the recorder in his pocket, he watched as the Queen turned back towards him and walked up to him, a serious look on her face. So serious that it made Guiles slightly worried that she may have gotten an idea in her head he wouldn't much like.

He was right.

"Inform the Duke: I wish to accompany him on this final campaign."

Guiles had no chance to rebuff the ludicrous idea, she was down the stairs and amongst the soldiers before he could form a coherent sentence. Instead, Guiles ran towards the nearest secluded spot he could find and there took out his mobile phone, quickly dialling up the Duke's father, Lord James Potter.

"_Hello?_" asked the voice in the phone. "_James Potter speaking._"

"Lord Potter! Thank heavens I've reached you!" exclaimed Guiles. "This is Nigel Guiles, from the Ministry of War."

"_Ah, yes—Guiles! Good to hear from you, old chap. What can I do for you?_" asked James over the phone. "_I trust the Queen's speech went off without a hitch?_"

"That's just it precisely, Lord Potter, it went off perfectly!" reported Guiles. "Her Majesty's speech has committed the Ministries to fully supplying the campaign. She has sworn that there would be no shortages on the front lines!"

"_Oh dear,_" replied James, although he didn't seem worried—rather, he seemed surprised. "_Well, that shouldn't be a problem. We certainly have the stores to do that, if the supplies run short._"

Guiles grudgingly agreed, but decided to abandon that line of thought for the more pressing matter. "Something else came up after the speech, Lord Potter."

"_Oh? Something bad?_"

"Depends," conceded Guiles. "Her Majesty has stated her desire to accompany the Duke on the British Campaign."

Silence reigned over the phone for a moment, before James eventually spoke up again. "_Guiles, I'm going to pass you over to my son. Please hold for a second._"

Guiles had to call upon years of professional experience not to gape at the opportunity to talk to the Duke of Halifax, even if only over the phone.

"_Hello? This is Halifax speaking. Mister Guiles?"_

"Y-Your G-Grace!" stuttered Guiles, despite his best attempts not to. "I-It's an honour!"

"_Yes, yes. I need you to tell me what you told my father again. Did the Queen specifically ask to accompany me on the campaign?_"

"Yes, Your Grace," confirmed Guiles, still sweating from the nerves.

"_Hmm…_" Guiles could hear the thoughtful noise over the phone. "_Very well. Tell Her Majesty she will be assigned quarters on the Invincible._"

"Y-Your Grace?" asked Guiles in shock. "We're letting her go?!"

Guiles heard a chuckle over the phone. "_Guiles, it would do you well to remember that we haven't the authority to 'let' the Queen to anything. Her Majesty is our sovereign, and we must obey._"

"Y-Yes, Your Grace," conceded Guiles, before hearing the Duke give his goodbyes, which the bureaucrat responded with in kind.

Shutting off the phone, Guiles allowed himself to stare off into space for a moment while he rallied himself. The Duke had actually _submitted_ to the Queen's whims! Usually, he would have used his considerable oratory or influence to get her to change her mind, but he had given this one up without a fight!

That got the bureaucrat thinking. Did the Duke have a plan? Was this all another lesson he was planning to teach the young monarch? Guiles eyed the young, pretty Queen of the British Empire having a blast amongst the soldiers, both male and female. He could imagine that they were giving the teenaged monarch assurances that they would win, just like they would with a younger sister.

Guiles narrowed his eyes. No. This was different. Eminently so. The soldiers were indeed acting quite familiar with the Queen, but it was different than one would with a family member. There was a dose of respect in the way they held themselves around Elizabeth. For instance, they never touched her, holding themselves back almost reverently. The way they spoke was quite colloquial, but it never became vulgar. Even the jokes they offered, though bordered on tasteless, never crossed that line. When she playfully kissed one serviceman's cheek after a particularly flattering comment, the men around him had looked on in jealousy, and the man himself seemed like he could die happy.

There was no lust there—only sheer respect and reverence. This girl could make the men and women around her wilfully and happily die for her, if she chose to. But she didn't, and that made her all the more remarkable to Guiles. She had all that power, all that influence, and she only did what was needed, what was necessary. She asked for nothing, driving her maids and cooks up the wall, and kept her tastes simple. She only held balls for charity, and had to be invited to all the others if she was to appear in high society.

Guiles, for the first time since he began his career, slouched against a wall, arms crossed, and observed the Queen.

She was just a girl. No more than sixteen years of age. She had admitted herself weak and helpless in combat. She was not an expert in politics, either, and she was still learning quite a bit. Yet, she held that aura about her—that aura that told the people around her that she was, or would be in charge. That she was a force to be reckoned with, and that she would rule, not reign.

It would have been unthinkable to Guiles years ago that a girl with such a traumatic background could have risen to such heights and dealt with her past so well. She had been beaten, tortured, and tainted, but she had always risen up, chin up and defiant. Word had reached him that even when in captivity, the Queen had injured quite a few Death Eaters who had tried to get near her, even if not always with the success she merited. What a strong will she had! What inconceivable strength of soul and mind she possessed!

Maybe that was why the Duke was letting her go with him to Britain. Maybe he had seen this side of the Queen before everyone else and was simply waiting for her to awaken, so to speak. Guiles knew, at that moment, that he was a very lucky man.

Before his very eyes, as the Queen laughed and mingled with the soldiers of the Empire, he knew he was watching a rising phoenix. That is what she was: a phoenix; a creature of the Light that sprung from the darkest of ashes, resplendent, powerful, and beautiful.

And upon that platform where she had stood, the phoenix had given its first cry.


	32. Chapter XXV: To End The Dark War

_AN: I cannot apologize enough for the wait I have put you, my loyal readers, through. There are no words to explain how regretful I am about my long silence, and the only justification I have is that deciding to end the story with this fourth installment has forced me to rewrite the final few chapters, making sure that the end of the Dark War is as epic and as action-packed as I conceivably could without detracting from the overall quality of the story thus far._

_This is not the final chapter of the story, despite its seeming title. There are a good few chapters left for me to upload, and more than a few left for me to write. When the updates take us to that point, however, I will beg you all to have patience (not that you've not shown extraordinary patience already) so that I can write the chapters as fast and as best as I can._

_Cheers,_

_Marquis Black  
_

* * *

_Northern South Ayrshire – Imperial Beachhead_

The deployment was going well.

Already, 15 of the 45 Airships that had been detached for this particular wing of the attack had unloaded their cargo and assigned units. Tents had sprung about throughout the entire region, and the Warders had quickly gone to work to create Anti-Apparation, Anti-Portkey, and perimeter wards, as well as charming the tents to self-regulate their temperature, given the oncoming cold of winter. Those soldiers who had been found to lack any particular duties had been put to work to construct a hastily built barricade around the camp, even as it grew, resulting in the construction of new barricades every so often as the camp grew, thereby dividing the camp into several sections.

The man in charge of overseeing this particular deployment, however, did not see anything wrong with this. In fact, it just meant better organization, as far as he was concerned.

Standing on top of a slightly elevated hill in the camp, he was hunched over, looking at several documents sprayed on a table, barking out orders as he made up his mind. Communicators would then relay the orders to the appropriate people—so far, there were 45 Communicators on hand, each of them targeting a different sub-commander.

"Brigadier Longbottom, sir!"

Newly promoted Brigadier Neville Longbottom raised his eyes to meet the oncoming Communicator, who had his wand out and against his ear, undoubtedly receiving a message. "What is it, Corporal?" he asked, one eye back onto the documents.

"The _Implacable_ has finished unloading its supplies, but there seems to be some confusion as to whether the _Hunter_ or the _Orion_ is to unload next," reported the Communicator professionally.

Neville glanced sideways at an assistant, who instantly brought the wanted papers to the table and spread them out evenly before Neville's eyes.

"The _Hunter_ is carrying segments of the Second Legion, and the _Orion_ has the final convoy of Warders," reported the assistant dutifully.

Neville nodded once before tapping a finger pensively against the wooden table. The tapping noise went on five times before he made up his mind.

"The Warders are doing fine," he decided. "Have the _Hunter_ unload next, and tell the _Orion_ that it gets the turn after that."

"Yes, Brigadier."

As the Communicator walked off again, chattering into the end of his wand as if a phone, Neville turned his attention back to the papers already strewn all over his table. He pointed his index finger at a map of the area, which was being constantly altered to show the progress of the camp.

"When the lads from the _Hunter_ arrive, I want them sequestered here, next to the Fifth Legion," he ordered, tapping the indicated spot. His assistant quickly scratched the order onto his notepad before nodding, indicating that Neville could go on. "…and I want the _Orion_'s Warders to put up their tents apart from those already here," he tapped a spot again, "just in case we need them elsewhere in an emergency. Preferably next to the Sixth Legion detachment."

"Yes, Brigadier," assented the assistant. "And what about the First Legion? Will we be getting any of those?"

Neville gave his assistant a disbelieving look. "The First? Don't be absurd. The First are on the _Invincible_. They go where the Duke goes, and nowhere else."

"Yes, Brigadier."

"Ah, Brigadier?" another assistant tried to get his attention, and so Neville turned his eyes appropriately. "Colonel Bones respectfully wishes to know when her detachment of the Third Legion will be allowed to unload off the _Edinburgh_."

Neville successfully managed to repress a wince as he heard the name of his paramour. The fact that he had hidden out after the disaster at Empire's Helm had not gone over well with Susan, and she had been very, _very_ vocal about her resentment over this.

Not to mention physical.

* * *

_After the Defense of Harrisburg…_

CRASH!

Neville successfully dodged the vase Susan had thrown, quite expertly, at his head by mere centimetres. They were at their common flat at the moment, having stolen away from the festivities, and Susan was being quite…well…obvious about her feelings.

"_YOU STUPID, INSENSITIVE, BLOODY ARSEHOLE!_"

Neville quickly ducked behind the couch as his lover began throwing spells his way. "Now, Susan-love, let's be rational about this…" he pleaded.

That seemed to set off the redhead even more. Her eyes were ablaze with fury, and she sent an extra-strong Slicing Curse at the couch, giving it a nice, deep gash, but not compromising Neville's hiding place.

"_RATIONAL?!_ I'll give you—!" She couldn't formulate the words, so furious she was, so she just sent another slicing curse at the couch, further damaging it.

"Susie, _please_, hear me out, at least!" he begged her, hoping to whatever deity there be that he wouldn't have to duel the woman he loved.

Susan seemed impervious to his words, however. "Listen to you?!" she shrieked. "What _possible_ reason could you have to make me believe you were _dead_ for _weeks_ and then reappear telling me that _HARRY BLOODY POTTER_ told you to play dead?!"

"Well, when you say it like that—" Not the best choice of words, he realized in retrospect as Susan sent a blasting curse that forced him to dive backwards, lest the couch ram him into the ground.

Unfortunately, that meant she now had a clean shot at him, and next thing he knew, he was bound by ropes and leaning awkwardly against the wall. It was most uncomfortable. But then, having a furious girlfriend—maybe more—looming over you, holding her wand threateningly, and being unable to move at all would make _anyone_ uncomfortable. To Neville's credit, he didn't squeak in fear.

"Do you know…" she started slowly, her voice _radiating_ menace. "…what I went through when I'd heard the Third Legion had been wiped out?" she hissed. "Can you _imagine_ what I felt when I realized you had apparently _died?_"

Neville managed to shake his head in the negative, eyeing the menacing wand warily. If he'd really wanted to, he could have easily broken out from his bonds and taken out Susan within seconds, but a part of him had decided that it would be wiser to weather this out.

Neville was a bit surprised, however, when he noticed the freely falling tears streaking down her pale cheeks consistently, forming a thin, watery line from her eyes to her jawbone. Susan was renowned for being an impassive commander, only showing excitement and any sort of positive emotion while in combat. To see her so vulnerable was definitely a first for Neville, and it shocked him more than her violent actions against him.

"Susan…" he began, but was cut off when she shook her head fiercely, letting the tears fly wild.

"NO, Neville!" she denied him the chance to speak. "This time, you shut up and you _listen_."

The fury that had Neville cowering behind a couch seemed to evaporate as she dropped to her knees in front of him and leaned forward to cup his head with her hands, which he absently noted were trembling madly. His eyes, however, were on hers, and he couldn't help but see the sheer heartbreak in them, causing him to weirdly feel some pain in his chest. Outside, Neville could hear some sort of hubbub. It sounded like much yelling—he supposed Harry had evoked the next stage of his plan.

"I nearly _died_ when I heard the Legion had been annihilated," she whispered to him, keeping his eyes firmly on her. "I wanted to _die_, Nev."

"Susan…" started Neville again, but Susan cut him off by standing up abruptly and turning away from him, but not before undoing the binding charm. As Neville rubbed his sore wrists, he looked at her back and tried again. "Susie…"

"Don't," she replied quickly. Neville could tell she was still crying freely. "Don't. Just don't speak to me for a while."

"Susan…"

"I'll be staying with Hannah and Cynthia tonight," she told him abruptly, making Neville gape with horror. Was she leaving him for good? Part of him knew he couldn't blame her, but the more prevalent instinct was to protest fervently, to beg her to stay.

"Susan, please…" he tried, but as before, she cut him off.

"No, Neville," she said emphatically, shaking her head. "I need to cool off. If I…If I stay here, all the rage will come back, and I just can't deal with that right now."

Turning back to look at her lover, Susan knelt down and gave him a final, lingering kiss before straightening up. "I'll see you later, Neville." With that, she Disapparated on the spot, giving him no chance to try and stop her.

For the first time in years, Neville allowed himself to cry.

* * *

Ever since then, he'd only been able to see her during shift hours, when both of them were assigned to work for the Third Legion. Unfortunately, his heroics had cost him this brief allowance as well, as he was subsequently promoted to Brigadier, which came with an additional grant of the Victoria Cross, for "gallantry above and beyond the call of duty, and amazing self-sacrifice in service of your country," as the Queen had read. The bliss of that award, however, was somewhat dimmed when he saw some disapproval in the Queen's eyes when she'd glanced back and forth between him and Susan, who had refused to even look at him as the award was bestowed on him.

Had he done the right thing? Neville was certain he had. With the help of his surviving men, he had dealt a horrific blow to the Death Eaters and had brought the war's end so much closer.

But at what cost?

His beloved had all but forsworn him, his Queen seemed disappointed in him due to the former, and he felt his heart break every time Susan's name was mentioned. It almost made him want to quit the army.

Almost.

"Tell the Colonel that once the _Edinburgh_'s turn comes up, she'll be allowed to unload," he told the Communicator evenly. Even if he was desperate for Susan's forgiveness, he would not play favourites, and he dearly hoped she knew that, or else he didn't know her as well as he thought he had.

"Yes, Brigadier."

Neville was quickly back on the map, pointing again to different sections. "Once the camp is ready and the order given, we'll be taking this route," he traced it on the map," and we'll be linking up with General Guinness' group over here," he pointed at a location about twenty miles south from Hogsmeade. "The Duke will then take over command of the offensive."

The assistants around him all nodded as they wrote down the orders, completely ignoring the oncoming Communicator. The woman in question, gave a short nod of respect to Neville before relaying her message.

"Brigadier, Field Air Marshall Potter requests your presence at the communicator stand for a conference of the officers in charge," she told him. Neville nodded in thanks.

"Thank you, Corporal, I'll be right there," he told her, before turning his attention back to the assistants. "Jefferson, you're in charge of making sure everything goes as I've directed while I'm gone. Dismissed."

With that, Neville turned on his heel and walked towards the special tent that had been set up for the communicator stand. Another impressive result of magic and technological hybridization, the stand served, to the best of his knowledge, as a sort of holographic communicator. However, because of this, it was necessary to set up closed areas for security, as anyone could easily hear the conversation.

Showing his pass to the Imperial Guards outside the tent (thus proving just how important security was when dealing with the communicator stands), Neville was quickly admitted into the tent, the imposing red-clothed Guards now barring the entrance fully. Inside the unimposing tent was a single, circular metallic platform on the floor. Attached to it was a similarly metallic stand, which held aloft a keyboard, along with some other instruments.

Neville made his way onto the platform and, turning to face the console, tapped in his name and identification number before finally pressing the activation button. Almost instantly, the platform beneath him began to glow blue, and several figures fizzled into being before him. All of them stood imposingly in different stances, except for the middle figure, upon whom all eyes were set.

"Ah, Brigadier Longbottom, how good of you to join us."

* * *

"I am here as summoned, Field Air Marshall."

Harry smiled from his command chair as Neville, the last amongst the commanders to join the briefing, fizzled into view. The young Brigadier looked worn and tired, and Harry couldn't blame him. Still, there was a briefing to be had. Harry once more swept his gaze across the pantheon of officers to make sure no one was left out.

From left to right were General of the Imperial Armies John Sulu, Admiral of the Fleets Tybalt Staples, Brigadier Neville Longbottom, Chief Artillery Officer Henry Ames and his XO, Ernie Macmillan, and finally the Head Warding Officer, Arthur Peterson. Each man was famous in their own way, and each of them were excellent commanders.

Beside Harry stood Ginny, who was staring at the pantheon emotionlessly. She was here as her husband's direct right-hand woman, although her role was not to relay information so much as get rid of pests in her husband's way. To his other side stood Admiral Wolf, who also gazed stonily at the six men who made up Harry's command staff for this invasion. The men in question would then relay the appropriate orders to their subordinates once the conference was done.

"Let's get started then, shall we?" suggested Harry pleasantly, resting his head on a fist. "As you are all aware, our target is the former School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogwarts," he introduced, and was pleased when the officers nodded. "What you don't know is that since our last encounter, the school has been magically reinforced several times over. Simply bombarding it into dust is no longer an option."

"If I may ask, where did you get this information?" asked Sulu quietly.

"As soon as the Death Eaters left the Isles and were trapped in Harrisburg, a group of scouts was dispatched to make preparations for our arrival," explained Harry easily. "They reported that the wards had been reinforced to such levels that they might as well be shields, and on par with the _Invincible_ as well."

"So it's as you predicted," noted Neville's image, and Harry paused for a moment before nodding with a wry smile.

"Indeed," he confirmed. "This is no doubt the work of one Tom Riddle, formerly known as Lord Voldemort."

Where an uproar would have occurred in any other occasion upon mentioning the dreaded name of the allegedly Darkest Wizard of all time, this revelation was met with stony silence and a passing sense of acceptance. Even Ernie, who had grown up fearing the name of Voldemort, was rubbing his chin with a look of dawning comprehension.

"Yes, that makes sense," commented the fair-headed man. "I had it understood that Voldemort," he said the name without any trouble at all, "was in the custody of the Potters, but was somehow taken away from them inexplicably. I assume this third party is responsible for the return of Riddle?"

Harry smiled, pleased at the deduction. "Very good, Mister Macmillan," he said approvingly, before turning to Ginny. "Ginny?" he prompted.

Making an unconscious step forward, Ginny explained the Potters' suspicions, including the suspected identity of the person responsible. "We cannot be certain of this," she concluded, "but all indications seem to point towards this conclusion."

Another moment of silence passed as the officers digested this news, and Head Warder Peterson was the first to break the silence.

"Well, if this is true, then it shouldn't be too hard to calibre the instruments to pick up their signatures…" he posited. "But if we know this information, isn't it likely that the enemy does as well?"

Ginny glanced at Harry, who took over at her prompt. "We have reasons to believe that they do indeed know that we know," he confirmed. "My lovely wife feels that this has jeopardized the theorized locations of our objectives, but I respectfully disagree."

"Hmph," grunted Staples. "I'm thinkin' the little lady is right, Potter," he opined gruffly with a lack of decorum that would have had the Duke's staff reeling in outrage. "Why would Riddle keep them where he knows we'll find 'em? Seems like a damn stupid thing to do, given what they're meant to do!"

Even as Peterson and Ernie joined in, saying they agreed with Staples and Ginny, Neville kept his gaze on Harry, who seemed undisturbed by this protest. Something told Neville this was much more than it seemed, and so decided to play a gamble.

"He's given up on them, hasn't he?" he asked suddenly, silencing the debate and causing all eyes to fall on him.

"Hmm?" Harry made a questioning noise. Still, the raised eyebrow and amused glint in his eyes told Neville he was right on the dot.

"Riddle," he explained. "He's given up on immortality."

"Come off that, Neville," protested Ames. "Why would he? It's what he's always been searching for, isn't it?"

"That's because he had no other goal!" defended Neville. "Beyond the ability to live forever, he had nothing else to drive him!"

"So you're suggesting that Riddle has found this something now?" asked Wolf. Neville nodded.

"Might we inquire as to what this 'something' is?" asked Sulu neutrally, neither reproaching nor approving.

Neville glanced at Harry, who refused to speak, and so admitted, "I don't know. But I do think that he's got his sights set on something else now, something that's worth to him more than the ability to not die."

"Maybe he's seeking true immortality?" suggested Peterson, drawing his colleagues' gaze onto him. "We all know that the current method, the Horcruxes, are an imperfect method of living forever—one that does not guarantee human form when resurrected. Perhaps he has found another way, so as to counter this difficulty?"

Ginny shook her head. "That seems unlikely. Even with Riddle's vast knowledge of Dark practices, we have, with the end of the Death Eaters, the largest collection of Dark literature under our supervision," she dutifully reported. "Furthermore, as we had already predicted Riddle's return, we anticipated such a course of action on his part and had teams of researchers pour through the texts seeking out any obscure references to any such ritual."

Ginny paused to take a breath. "It was a lengthy process, and we required some additional archaeological information from the Confederacy, our Japanese and Asian allies, and the Resistance, but we managed to deduce that no such ritual exists."

"Impressive," commented Ames admiringly. "That is quite the mobilization of resources."

Sulu narrowed his eyes towards Harry, but remained polite. "Indeed. A very considerable mobilization I had not heard of previously. May I ask why, Air Field Marshall?"

"This was a Potter family initiative," responded Harry without any qualms. "All resources mobilized were of our own ownership. There was no cost to the government or usage of government resources whatsoever."

"The famous Marauders?" asked Peterson, interested. "That special militia the Crown gave your family special dispensation to assemble before the war?"

Harry nodded. "My father had the Marauders do the fact-hunting, and our own family did the research," he elaborated.

"Fascinating as this is," interjected Staples blandly, "we need to get to the damn plan, already. Potter?"

Harry chuckled at his colleague's impatience. "Very well," he relented. "Let us discuss the details of this operation."

He focused his gaze on Neville first. "Neville, you will be in command of the first detachment, as you already know," Neville nodded. "Your approach will take you south of Hogwarts, so you're going to end up on the opposing shore of the Black Lake. In addition, before reaching Hogwarts, you will link up with General Guinness' south-east wing and take them under your command."

"Are they to row across the Lake?" asked Ames, but Harry shook his head.

"No, and this is where Staples comes in," he said. Staples straightened up as he looked at Harry sharply. "Once the first detachment reaches the shores of the Lake, Admiral Staples will deploy his squadron to carry out two tasks. The first is to deploy a squadron of our best naval warships to provide covering fire for the second task. The task in question is the deployment of a battlefield bridge for the first detachment to use to cross the Lake. The enemy will no doubt be expecting us to have Neville's detachment circumvent the Lake, so if we do this, we'll have the advantage of surprise."

Harry now turned to Sulu. "General Sulu, you will be in command of our second detachment," he told the dark-skinned man. "It will be split into two groups. The first is the force that is to be our main, obvious force. This force is to keep the enemy's focus on it and off the first detachment. The second group is an airborne assault group that will be ready to flank the enemy on my command via several unused tunnels located throughout the grounds and nearby Hogsmeade."

"What about the gates?" asked Sulu, accepting his role tacitly. He knew that, at least until the war was finally over, he would be under Harry's command, even if technically he was the Duke's superior officer. "Hogwarts' gates are famous for being nigh-impregnable, and if I'm to keep the enemy focused on me, the gates need to be taken down."

Harry nodded, glancing at Ames and Ernie. "Correct, which is why I want the Artillery Brigade to accompany the second detachment and provide heavy siege fire to complement your assault."

Ames and Ernie both nodded in acquiescence to their orders, but Peterson raised an objection. "What about the first detachment? Won't their lack of artillery hinder their own assault?"

Harry shook his head. "Artillery would slow them down. The second detachment's role is to assault the cliff side of Hogwarts via the docks, where the deployable bridge will end. Carrying artillery pieces up that cliff would slow them down too much."

"Pulling a Wolfe, then?" asked Staples, referring to the intrepid and famous British assault on Quebec in the 18th century by James Wolfe.

"Pretty much," confirmed Harry. "The thing is, we need someone to manage to get inside the castle and cause some ruckus. With any luck, that should allow either detachment to push forward with less difficulty."

"Are we expecting much resistance, then?" asked Peterson, who hadn't yet received orders. "I mean, with the Death Eaters currently meeting their maker, how many Dark Wizards can Riddle have at his disposal?"

"We don't believe Riddle is relying on humans," interjected Ginny, causing the officers to frown and look at her for an explanation. "Since Riddle is undoubtedly aware of the lack of human resources for him to man his base, we believe he will be attempting to use simple, animated golems, of the like of Terracotta soldiers."

"I thought those were destroyed to the last?" asked Sulu askance. "They were a huge problem, after all. Leaving any intact could present a threat."

"We did dispose of them," confirmed Wolf. "I was in charge of finding the Death Eater depot while the Death Eaters were trapped in Harrisburg. We glassed the entire area. There is no chance of survival."

"Then what's he using?" asked Staples gruffly.

"Riddle is vastly powerful," reminded Ernie. "It's not a stretch to think that he may have created his own versions."

"Agreed," said Ames, backing up his XO. "Riddle, from what I've read and heard, was a very powerful man, able to match Dumbledore in combat, and everyone knows that Dumbledore is a master at creating such golems."

"Speaking of the old man," interjected Neville. "What are we going to do with him?"

Harry smiled eerily at the question. "We? We do nothing," he answered. "Dumbledore will do everything for us."

Neville looked like he wanted to protest, but silenced himself when Harry lifted himself out of his chair, barely acknowledging the stiffening of his wife and subordinate at his sides. He had a mad glint in his eyes as a confident smile spread on his face.

"My friends, we must all understand just how close we are," he told his audience. "We are finally on the cusp of _victory_," he asserted strongly, raising a half-curled hand, as if carrying an orb. "Hawke, the millions that died during the coup and the war…we're finally at the end!"

"One more," he continued. "One more, tiny push and we'll have done it all!" Spreading his arms to his sides, palms open receptively, Harry looked every bit the triumphant conqueror awaiting his destiny.

"The Dark War…" he spoke almost reverently. "…will be _OVER!_"


	33. Chapter XXVI: March of the Empire

_AN: Next chapter! Also, something you might notice from here on out, as we broach the final arc of the Dark Wars, is that the chapters will become progressively bigger as we go. This particular chapter clocks at about 1,000 words greater than the last one, and the difference in sizes will increase as the final campaign unfolds. I hope this is all to your liking; if not, then too bad--I tried._

_Cheers,_

_MB  
_

* * *

_Phoenix Camp – 1__st__ Wing of Imperial Offensive_

"_MOVE OUT!_"

Slowly, the entire camp seemed to, as one, begin moving forward as the thousands of Imperial soldiers began their long trek from their camp to their battle positions. The mere walk of the massive column of soldiers kicked up dust that made the scene look like a train going through a subway tunnel. The soldiers were all dressed in dirty, khaki uniforms over which a similarly-coloured cloak was draped, protecting them from the dust and the elements. Their dirty, bronze helmets, once shiny enough to reflect light, now lay obtuse and darkened, dirtied by the elements as the soldiers had gone from fight to fight.

Not every soldier was already in the column, however. A great many were still preparing themselves, as the column began moving regiment by regiment, squad by squad. Coordinating these straggler regiments was Neville, who was again at his map table with several adjutants. A bigger issue was troubling him, however, and that was the fiery redhead who was on the other side of the table, glaring openly at him. Normally, he wouldn't have accepted insubordination from subordinates, but it was harder to fight this one particular subordinate for the sheer fact that his feelings towards her simply made being harsh impossible to him.

"You know I can do it!" she was saying. She was referring to leadership of the vanguard regiment, of course.

"Peterson is good enough," was Neville's counter, but a weak one he had to admit.

"Peterson is a good soldier," agreed Susan. "But I'm better! And what's worse, you know it!" she had her arms in the air now, in a show of exasperation.

"So you can lead the regiment after the van. I don't see what the problem is, frankly," he argued. "Being leader of the van is a formality at this point, and you know it, Colonel. It's not like he's going to charge forward at the sight of the enemy and gain renown for it. If anything, he'd face a firing squad for disobeying orders and endangering the entire Army."

Neville was referring, of course, to the fact that their flanking move was supposed to be a secret. Susan, however, wasn't buying his excuse, and slammed down her palms onto the desk, upsetting the maps strewn on it and outraging Neville's adjutants.

"Colonel Bones! Really!" protested one of the aides.

"Leave it," ordered Neville with a raised hand, cutting off any further outbursts from his aides before turning serious and reprimanding eyes onto Susan. "This is not up for discussion, Colonel. This is part of the plan. Peterson was judged to be the adequate character for leading the van during this operation, and so he shall remain."

"Peterson's a hothead!" argued Susan. "Even if he's not told to engage, he'll have this column moving too quickly and sloppily to pass undetected by the enemy!" she argued. "Remember what he did in Portugal? Winters said he nearly compromised the battle at Vittoria because he gave away his position too early!"

"And yet we won," shot back Neville.

"Because Cummings is a smart man and Winters an excellent commander, not because Peterson redeemed himself!" countered Susan. "Sure he can lead his men into battle! Sure he can keep order! But that's rubbish if he can't follow a plan!"

One of the aides then caught Neville's attention, and the young Brigadier gave a short nod for the man to speak.

"Sir, why not give the Colonel command of the reconnaissance team?" the man proposed. "That way, she'll be ahead of the column, but Peterson is allowed to retain the role appointed to him by the Air Field Marshall."

"The Duke is behind Peterson's appointment?" asked Susan, outraged.

Neville ignored that in favour of the aide's suggestion. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, thinking it over. Certainly, Harry hadn't made any overtures about who should command the scouts, and while he agreed with Susan's opinion of Peterson, he couldn't sack a man personally chosen by his superior; not until he showed true incompetence. Sadly, Peterson, though impetuous, was anything but incompetent. Overall, the plan had merit, he had to admit.

Nodding, he vocally gave approval to the aide's suggestion. "Very well. Colonel Bones, as per your desire to take command of a forward unit, you are to take command of the scouting unit," he decreed, filling in the official documentation as the aide in question passed it to him. Once he signed it, he rolled it up and offered it up to Susan. "As you well know, scouting protocols are for the unit to be no further than a day's fast march from the vanguard of the column."

Susan glared down at her boyfriend (or ex-boyfriend? That matter hadn't been settled yet), but still snatched the papers from his outstretched hand. "I understand. How will we communicate?"

Neville chose to ignore the distinct lack of respect in her tone in favour of answering her question. He held up his wand instead. "Communication spell. Considering our information of the heightened anti-electrical fields around Hogwarts, we will be unable to use anything else, thus our lack of transportation cars."

Susan's glare remained in place for a moment as she gazed down at her significant other (or was he still? She didn't know what to think of that right now), who was looking up at her with equal determination, minus the hostility.

"Fine," she ground out as she turned to walk away, much to the outrage of Neville's assistants. They were vocally protesting her rude departure, and she herself was feeling kind of bad for doing this to him, but she just couldn't let go of those feelings of betrayal that just looking at him made worse.

"Be careful out there," she heard him say as she left, and Susan had to stop herself mentally from turning around and shouting at him. Why was he saying such a sweet thing now? What about when he'd left her in an emotional hole of misery and despair? Where had his comforting, soothing words been then?

'Stupid Neville,' she thought as she left the area and walked over to where several horses were stabled. She quickly showed the orders upon being prompted, making the stable-keep acknowledge her need of a horse and providing her with a jet-black steed.

'I'll show you,' she thought furiously as she saddled up and thanked the stable-keeper. 'I'll show you I don't need protecting. I don't need you. I'm a soldier in my own right!'

Gently kicking at the sides of the horse, she spurred on the black stallion into a canter, quickly catching up with the rear of the column, where units were still being assembled. Waving at them, her rifle slung onto her back and slightly hitting her back as her steed cantered by them, she grinned as they waved back and shouted encouragements. Whatever Neville's reasons for letting a comparatively new commander like Peterson take a job normally suited for her, Susan was popular with the troops, and the fact that they were all cheerfully waving at her as she passed by the column made that fact clear.

She even made comments as she passed certain people or groups.

"Boyle! Stop being a lazy bastard and pick up the pace!" she cried out at one point, causing the man in question's comrades to laugh and tease the reddening man, who laughed in embarrassment at getting caught.

"Philippo, your group is moving too fast! Slow down!" she cried at another man, who instantly recognized her and quickly gave the order for his men to slow down, much to her satisfaction.

"Thanks, Colonel Bones!" the man then shouted in thanks.

Susan laughed as her stallion took her up the column, with similar situations repeating themselves quite a few times. At one point, she had even scolded a few flag-bearers for letting the regimental colours sag. Wherever she went, however, the reaction was the same.

Recognition and acclaim.

Susan, despite her belief that people thought her a non-entity in the Imperial Army—always overshadowed by her much more famous lover, the infamous Brigadier Neville Longbottom—had achieved much fame due to her heroic stand outside the Imperial Palace in Harrisburg. Word had quickly spread of how Bones had taken command of the troops outside the Palace and kept a stiff resistance until the Third Legion remnants had shown up and ordered them to fall back.

She was a hero.

She just didn't know it.

Back at the camp, Neville was shaking his head in amusement as he heard the faint shouting at the column. He could see the fiery woman he loved riding by the marching Imperial soldiers and could guess the sort of things she was shouting at them to rile them up. It was so typical of her to feel like she had to prove herself, even though she was blind to the respect that her subordinates and superiors had for her.

His aides, however, seemed less than pleased with her attitude.

"Brigadier, why would you allow such an insubordinate officer to take command of the scouts?" had demanded one of his aides. "Such a loud and disrespecting officer should be punished, not caved in to!"

"It's fine, it's fine," he said dismissively, rather wishing they could just get back to business and let the whole affair with Susan go. It was a subject that promised headaches, so he was rather keen on avoiding discussion on it. "Who knows? She might put some enthusiasm into them. Get them to go above and beyond the call and find things they'd normally overlook."

"But Brigadier…!"

"Look, drop it," Neville said in exasperation. "It's not important. She won't compromise the mission—she's better than that," he firmly asserted. "I know Susan. Whatever her feelings towards me, she won't take them out on the Empire by sabotaging this mission."

"I know she used to be your lover, Brigadier, but—"

Whatever the man had to say was instantly silenced as the table in front of Neville cracked and split open, crashing onto the ground in a pile of debris, his curled fist still in the air where the tabletop had been.

"I said, _drop it_," he growled out, his eyes narrowed into an angry glare at the offending aide. The man had gone too far; to imply that he was being compromised by his feelings towards Susan had been a low blow—one that he felt was unfair and uncalled for. After all, while he did admit that he loved her, he had not let it affect his military decision. Duty was duty; love was love.

"I made my decision," he continued, his growl still in place. "Anyone else have a problem with it?"

The aides around him had all taken a step back at Neville's angry display of force. How could they not? Nevermind the table breaking, the sheer atmospheric magical energy he was exuding had an oppressive, savage feel to it that made them feel like a knife was being pressed against their throats. They were being reminded exactly why it was that Neville was considered one of the strongest fighters in the Imperial Army, and why he had been able to almost singlehandedly hold off the Death Eater forces at Harrisburg's Central Island. Even more terrifying was the fact that his hand had apparently taken an earthen hue, although that quickly passed as he dropped his fist, replacing it with his wand-hand and quickly repairing the table.

"Now then," he said as if nothing had just occurred. "Let's get back to the mobilization plans, shall we?"

* * *

Already far away from the camp, Susan was making good time in catching up to the head of the column. She had passed countless Imperial soldiers, all of them high-spirited, in spite of the sharp, cold wind blowing, and cheerfully waving at her as she passed by on her stallion.

It was as she was reaching the front of the column that she allowed her stallion to slow down into a trot as she recognized a face amongst the crowds. It was someone she hadn't seen since her Hogwarts days, in fact.

"Captain Lyles!" she shouted in surprise at the older man, whose youthful face was nonetheless contrasted by the shocking amount of silver hair on his head.

The man in question was as surprised as she felt, apparently, because he twitched with surprise at her call. "Oh? Bones!" he called back in greeting with a grin. "What are you doing in this neck of the woods?" he asked, before elbowing one of his men. "Hey, lads! It's the Bones girl! You remember her from Hogwarts, right?"

Recognition flooded Lyles' men as they cheerfully greeted Susan, whom they remembered for helping them after being ambushed by the Ministry troops while they had been stationed there with Harry Potter.

"What am I doing here?" asked Susan ironically. "I'm one of the commanding officers, Lyles!" she reminded him teasingly.

Lyles barked out a laugh. "So you are! A Colonel is it?" he exclaimed in surprise as he noticed her uniform tags. "My, how the young surpass us old people!"

Susan giggled, but then a thought struck her. "Lyles, why aren't you and the lads with the First Legion?" she asked confusedly. "I had it understood that everyone from the Hogwarts days had been incorporated into the Snake Eaters…"

To her surprise, the group of people she had been welcomed by seemed to shut themselves off at that moment. Their faces became blank as they either avoided her eyes or turned their heads away as they marched. Only Lyles kept a passing glance on her as he replied.

"Circumstances arose that made our position there untenable."

After that, Susan couldn't elicit a single additional word from the normally youthful and energetic man. Completely confused, but deciding to call it off as a bad job, she spurred her stallion forward again into a canter, realizing she had fallen behind on her task. She absently remembered to wave goodbye to Lyles and the rest of his squad as she left, but failed to notice that they had taken off the neutral faces for one of concern.

"Sir," spoke up one of the soldiers after a moment of silence, "was it alright not to tell her?"

"We do owe her our lives, sir," agreed a sergeant.

Lyles remained stony faced, although one could tell the concern shining in his eyes. "We can't tell her. We can't tell anyone," he said with conviction. "We are soldiers first and foremost. Our task has been given, and that's what we'll do. At the cost of our lives if we must."

Lyles passed a hand absently on his upper left arm, his fingertips brushing against the protruding fabric of his Legion badge.

A golden insignia reading "1st," the S of which was in actuality a menacing snake reared up for a strike.

Snake Eaters.

"Our mission is our life," he said solemnly, as if reciting a mantra, which his soldiers then took up as well.

Throughout the column, several men and women suddenly felt the itch to rub their upper left arm, words quietly leaving their lips as they did so. They had no idea why, but it had felt as if some unspoken order had been given, and their conviction hardened like steel as their fingers touched their arm.

Further up the column, Susan was pouting to herself at the unusual behaviour of the men she had helped take care of during their capture at Hogwarts years ago. Something was definitely odd with them, and she couldn't help but feel enormous curiosity about it.

"Really," she pouted somewhat petulantly as she rode by the marching troops. "They didn't have to be so mean about it. It was just a question…"

Something caught her attention then, cutting off her pouting. Further ahead, she could see the end of the column, and she grinned in anticipation. That meant that the reconnaissance troop wouldn't be much further ahead, given that they had just started their mission. She easily slung her rifle off her back, grabbing it by the butt and prompted her stallion into a gallop, rushing ahead at full speed, her red coattails flapping in the wind behind her.

She knew full well how conspicuous her appearance made her. Whereas the other soldiers wore the khaki uniforms as a form of camouflage (while retaining a distinct British aura about them), she preferred her red, colonial-era uniform better. There was just no explaining it, either. She just felt more comfortable in it, safety be damned.

Others seemed to agree with her, too. When she had first tried on the khaki uniforms, she had felt disgusted at her appearance, and some of the more unsure looks of her subordinates cemented that belief firmly in her mind. That same day, she had opted back for her red uniform, and she'd stuck with it, through Harrisburg and all. Oddly, none of her superiors had rebuked her, and although others might have found that suspicious, she had failed to notice this altogether.

She grinned and waved as she passed the head of the column, cheekily smirking at Peterson, who wisely chose to ignore his fiery superior. He was not so restrained with his own men, however, and quickly ordered them to be quiet once they made signs that they would loudly cheer for the pretty redheaded officer.

Satisfied she had made Peterson's life a little harder for having stolen what she saw as her rightful job, Susan once again focused on the road ahead, her stallion galloping at full speed. She had been at it for forty-five minutes before she allowed the black stallion to slow down, which she could feel the beast was thankful for.

They were near a forest now, and Susan guessed that the reconnaissance unit couldn't be that much further ahead. Sighing, she took out a small device from within her coat and clicked it once, letting loose a cricket chirp. She narrowed her eyes when no response came, and tried again.

This time, she heard the responding cricket chirp and smiled. Soon, she could hear some bushes rustling, although she couldn't quite tell from where.

"Identify yourself!" rang out a voice.

Susan held up the official documents Neville had drawn up. "Colonel Susan Bones of the Third Imperial Legion, here to take active command of the Reconnaissance Unit."

No one answered for a moment, but a response did come eventually.

"Hold your position! We are sending someone to check!" explained the voice. "Any wrong moves and you will be fired upon!"

Susan gave a curt nod and waited patiently as the bushes rustled again and a khaki-wearing Imperial soldier carrying light infantry equipment warily approached her, pistol in hand. He only walked as far as arm's distance, at which point he held his hand out for the documents, which Susan gladly offered.

She watched as the man read through the documents before turning to look into the forest before them and nodding once. "All clear!" he shouted once.

Slowly, more men and women began to emerge from the woods, all similarly dressed and carrying similar equipment. Susan's eyes were immediately on the man wearing sergeant's insignia.

"I'm sergeant Willis, Colonel," he introduced himself. "I must admit, we didn't expect the Brigadier to send us an officer."

Susan could tell there was some disapproval at her conspicuous garb, but decided to ignore it. "The Brigadier had little choice. It was either this or getting the leadership of the van," she told them honestly. What point would there be in lying to them? She had been appointed here as a way to get her out of the way, she fully realized.

The unit seemed to appreciate it, too, giving her respectful nods. There was some irritation, of course—after all, who wouldn't feel irritated at having their unit interfered with?—but the general feel was one of acceptance, however reluctant it may be.

The sergeant gave the documents a one-over himself before rolling them up and handing them back to Susan with a sigh and a weary smile. "Well, Colonel, we're in your capable hands, it seems," he said with weary humour. "What shall we do first?"

Susan appreciated that the man was giving her a chance. Many wouldn't have. "Why don't you tell me what you've been up to thus far?" she suggested.

Willis nodded. "Very well, but not here. We've got a small camp set up further into the forest," he said. "We heard the horse's whiny, so we came to investigate."

A glance from one of the other soldiers seemed to remind Willis of something else. "Oh, yeah. If you could silence your horse, that'd also be great. Minimizes the amount of giveaway noise. We silence the paths we walk, too."

Susan raised a surprised pair of eyebrows. A squad of all-magic users was unheard of. "You're all wizards?"

Willis shook his head. "Jameson and Hilliard," he pointed to a blonde man and a brunette woman respectively, "are. The rest of us mere mortals are about as magical as dirt."

Susan chuckled as she dismounted, keeping a hold of her stallion's reins. She winked at Willis as she passed by. "Even dirt helps the youngest seeds blossom into the most beautiful flowers, sergeant," she reminded him.

Willis seemed abashed at his poor choice of words, apologizing profusely to both Susan and his unit's wizard and witch as well. All three magic-users laughed it off, though, as they proceeded into the woods, with Hilliard and Jameson silencing everything on the path they took. Hilliard was in charge of the path in front of them, while Jameson took care of removing the enchantments as they passed them, in order to keep their presence secret from magic-users. It was surprisingly well organized, in Susan's opinion, and made her respect the two magic-users a lot more.

Once at the camp, Willis decided to fill her in. As they had started their advance recently, they hadn't found anything of particular note, though the sergeant did admit that Hilliard had reported suspicious sounds and movements east of the camp.

"What kind of movements?" asked Susan as she sat on a fallen log, her stallion tied next to the rest of the units' horses.

Willis shrugged. "No idea. Hilliard swears that it's not animal, but I can't see the enemy sending troops this far away from Hogwarts. Not when they're so seriously outnumbered."

Glancing to her right, Susan could see that Hilliard was pouting reprovingly. Obviously the young woman thought her observations were worthy of further investigation. Maybe they were, Susan admitted, but Willis had a point.

"Fine," she finally concluded, getting down to business. "Here's what we're going to do."

The unit leaned in to listen better at their new commanding officer's orders.

Susan drew a crude map of the immediate area and their target's relative position on the ground with a branch. "We're currently here. The column, when I passed it last, was here," she scratched an X about five inches below the cloud-like drawing of the forest they were in. "According to protocol, since the army has to stay together, and moving in one column the whole way is just _asking_ for an ambush, they'll make camp before they reach this forest."

She quickly drew a square right beneath the cloud-shaped forest.

"We're going to go ahead of them up to here," she drew an X about an inch north of the forest. "If I'm not wrong, there should be a path there into the valley where Hogwarts and Hogsmeade are," she told them, surprising them. She grinned. "I used to love exploring the grounds and surrounding area. Some of the locals back then told me of that path."

"Isn't it reasonable that the enemy knows of it, too?" asked Hilliard worriedly.

"That shouldn't be a problem," reassured Susan. "Only locals who've _really_ explored the area would know about it. Since all of them are either dead or scattered across the globe, I doubt that'll be a problem," seeing some doubtful looks, however, she continued with her assurances. "Even if they did know, there's little they could do with that information. It's not exactly fit for army manoeuvres. It's supposedly very narrow and since the only way there is to go around a mountain or come from our current direction, it's very inconvenient."

Most of the unit was now nodding, somewhat surprised at their new leader's grasp of the terrain.

Susan pierced the X on the ground with her stick and held it firmly there. "If we can get there, we'll have a complete view of the valley. Considering what the Brigadier has said, we'd be in range of the reinforced wards, too, meaning that we can do some investigation before the army arrives," she reasoned. "We might even get lucky and see how many enemy troops there are."

Almost instinctively, some of the unit members turned to Willis for judgment, the man himself sitting on his log hunched forward, his hands clasped in front of his face as he looked at the crude map ponderingly.

"It's a good plan," he passed judgment eventually, to Susan's relief. There was nothing harder than to lead a unit that didn't want to be led. "I think it'll allow us to check all necessary facts before our wing of the army reaches the valley."

"What about the movements east?" asked Hilliard, really pushing her suspicions now. "I keep telling ya, sir, it's not an animal!"

Willis sighed as he rested his forehead against his clasped hands. "Hilliard, you know we can't send out a search party based on such flimsy evidence," he tried to reason. "It's a waste of manpower."

Hilliard obviously took objection to his objection, as she began to argue with that decision quite stringently. Susan, for her part, couldn't help but get a niggling feeling that there may be something to the woman's suspicions. At the very least, it would be better to err on the side of caution.

"Sergeant Willis," she interrupted the argument. Both the sergeant and Hilliard stopped their arguing and turned to look at her.

"Yes, Colonel?" asked the man respectfully.

"You take the men to the place I pointed out," she said authoritatively. "I'll be taking Private Hilliard and…" she glanced around at the unit members and settled for a dark-haired man. She quickly read his nametag. "…Private O'Hara and check Hilliard's report."

"Colonel, I don't think—" Willis started to protest, but Susan held up a hand to silence him.

"Sergeant, we're on the brink of one of the last, most important offensives of this war. We would do well to err on the side of caution in this case and check things out," she reasoned. Willis was stumped by that argument, having not thought of it previously, and nodded in acceptance.

"As you wish, Colonel," he agreed.

Susan nodded before standing up. "You might as well start your journey north, sergeant. The trek will take about two days' ride on a horse at full gallop, so you should be there in about four. We should be back by then."

Willis nodded gravely before he looked at his men. "You heard the Colonel! Up! Up you get! We're moving out!" he ordered sternly.

The men jumped to action, quickly gathering all their supplies. Back on her log, Susan noticed that Hilliard was approaching her, and that O'Hara was standing sternly behind the female private.

"I…just wanted to thank you for not dismissing my observations, Colonel, sir," Hilliard said thankfully.

Susan grinned. "Well, I know I'm new to this particular unit, but back in the Third Legion, we had a saying," she told Hilliard. "An officer who can't trust his men isn't fit to lead them. I trust ya, and I think Willis does, too. He's just afraid he might miss something important that would jeopardize his mission, I think."

Hilliard seemed to brighten up at Susan's words, and the redhead swore she saw O'Hara smile approvingly for a second before his look assumed a stern expression once again.

"Now then," Susan continued as she stood up, her rifle in hand. "Where did you say you saw the movements?"

Hilliard was beaming as she led Susan and O'Hara east of the camp.

* * *

Back at the column head, Peterson was getting irritated with some of the unprofessional chatter among the ranks. He quietly cursed Susan Bones' appearance, as it had riled up the troops in a way he didn't like. He knew that Bones was widely popular with the troops, and the fact that she was a looker made her the topic of many lewd topics. These conversations never reached the ears of the Brigadier, of course, or else they knew that the next conversation they'd ever have would be with St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.

Still, Peterson was leader of the _van_, damnit all! That meant that the upper brass thought him worthy of spearheading the invasion! So what if he was just a Major? He was leader of the bloody _van_! Even _Bones_ hadn't been picked! That was how much trust they had in him, he believed.

"Quiet!" he snapped at a pair of nearby soldiers, who wouldn't stop talking about Colonel Bones' more "salient" attributes. "You're Imperial soldiers, damn it all! Act like it!"

Grumbling to himself, Peterson set his jaw disapprovingly as he continued to lead the slow march towards Hogwarts. He knew from the maps and the orders he'd received that he had to set up a camp just before a forest further ahead. Sadly, it wasn't within viewing distance, as they were still making their way through the forest right north of the initial base camp. After that were plains, then the forest before which they had to set up camp.

"Bloody forests," he grumbled. He was accustomed to Harrisburg by now. That meant no dense forests, nice weather, and beaches. Not this Scottish nonsense they called normal weather and environment.

Crack.

Peterson's neck spun so quick that nearby soldiers wondered absently if he'd gotten whiplash from it. Nonetheless, everyone stopped, as they had all heard the cracking noise of a branch being stepped on.

"What was that?" asked a soldier near Peterson, and the man wanted to roll his eyes at the obvious question.

"We're about to find out," grunted Peterson. "Bullard, Walsh, Ericson, you're with me," he denoted quickly. The three men bit back groans as they followed their commanding officer into the forest, certain that they would only find a rabbit or a deer.

The rest of the troops waited patiently for the return of Peterson, having passed the word back that there was a slight delay. After five minutes, some of the soldiers began to get twitchy, but that was all for naught, as Peterson, Bullard, Walsh, and Ericson all returned soon after, the men laughing at Peterson over something.

"Stupid fox," growled Peterson, to the amusement of his men. "Damned thing bit me!"

The troops laughed, even as Peterson ordered the march to resume. For the rest of the day, Peterson remained in a foul mood.


	34. Chapter XXVII: From Bad

_AN: Ok, so two things. 1: I do not know much about equestrianism, nor have I ever had practical experience at it, so my apologies to equestrians who find some of the information provided...lacking. 2: Despite **huge** personal reservations, I have opened forums in which to discuss more at length any questions you might have regarding the Dark Wars and its universe in general._

_As always, I hope you enjoy the chapter.  
_

_Cheers,_

_Marquis Black  
_

* * *

Willis whistled.

"Look at 'em go."

His unit was crouching on a hillside about two hours away from their camp, observing the serpentine movements of the Imperial Army column as it made its way across the plains towards where they would establish camp. The noise would have been deafening, they were sure, if it hadn't been for the Warders Silencing everything within range.

"Kinda makes you wish you were with them, doesn't it?" asked Jameson rhetorically. "Instead of crawling on the ground like we are."

One of the remaining soldiers, a blonde, short-cropped woman smacked him upside the head, upsetting his helmet onto the ground. "This crawling is going to save their hides!" she rebuked her comrade.

Jameson glared at her. "Yeah, yeah," he agreed dismissively as he put on the helmet once again and fastened it under his chin. "Seriously, though. Why all the paranoia? We've not seen hide or hair of the enemy since we started. Everything points to us having the perfect element of surprise!"

"Maybe the boss is worried that we shouldn't, and so the enemy's lack of movement doesn't make sense?" suggested Willis. "After all, it's pretty damn hard to miss the Air Fleet landing troops upon troops."

"So maybe we got lucky, yeah?" suggested one of the other soldiers, a young, redheaded Irishman. "I mean, what's to say they haven't been paying attention?"

Willis looked at the new recruit askance. "With the Death Eaters biting the dust and the Imperial forces marching through Europe? He'd have to either be the most overconfident bloke I've ever heard of, or just damn stupid!" he said. "And seeing as how the boss doesn't seem to think that either is the case, I'm of a mind to agree with caution."

Willis decided to leave off his tirade there, noticing the wind picking up on a southerly course. "Excellent. Wind's in our favour," he told his unit, picking himself up. "Come on, on your horses! We have to make the most out of this wind!"

The five man team rushed to their horses and quickly saddled up, realizing the importance of using winds going in the opposite direction of the enemy. If the enemy had hounds or animals of any sorts (say, dragons), such winds would blow their scent far away from them, allowing them to gain greater ground in less time.

Willis was the first on his horse, a chestnut stallion which he'd affectionately named "Treebark" for its brown colour. "Come on," he prompted his horse softly, "Let's ride!" he then ordered the rest, rifles slung on their backs.

The group stayed close together as they rode, their horses grunting as they exerted themselves to keep up the speed demanded by their riders. It wasn't as if they were unused to the strain, but considering the length of the voyage intended, it was sure to tire out the war horses eventually.

Willis, of course, was at the head of the group, his soldier's overcoat flapping wildly behind him as he and his steed kept up a steady, if somewhat speedy pace. His men, however, were no slouches themselves, nor were their horses, and so they were never more than a few meters apart.

To the sergeant, the ride was blissful. It was freedom incarnate. To ride on open plains and through woods, with nothing but the wind and the elements to worry him. It was ecstasy itself.

They rode on for hours, briefly stopping for intervals of about thirty minutes to let the horses rest. At these points, the soldiers would usually sit in a circle and exchange stories, while always keeping an eye open for any nearby disturbances. So far, there had been none, and none of their magical traps had been set off.

It was quite weird, in Willis' opinion. Even the Death Eaters had staged more proactive defenses of their bases. From the reports filtering in from Continental Europe, the remaining hold-outs were proving to be a challenge, so determined were they. It made sense, in a way, Willis supposed. With the weak-willed gone in the first waves of mass surrenders, all that remained were the determined, cunning, veteran, and fanatic. Unlike the rest of the Death Eater forces, these would not fall easily.

So why did their final, true opponent act like a rookie?

Willis wasn't one to question orders, but even his meagre (in his opinion, anyway) observational skills told him that something about this whole operation was dodgy. There was no reason for which the enemy would allow the Imperial Army to land and move so close to Hogwarts unimpeded. It was just tactical sense to dog your enemy as he moved, to lower the amount of troops committed to the final confrontation.

None of that had happened to them. Why?

He had been of a mind to cancel his patrol and just go back to the Brigadier and beg the man to hold the operation until they found out what the hell was going on. The temptation had been strong enough for him to slow down the pace of his scouting party—so much so that an _Army colonel_ had managed to catch up in a few hours.

Even now, the temptation was still strong in his mind to call off the operation, but now it was out of his hands. There was a Colonel in charge this time. A woman he respected, no less. After all, Colonel Susan Bones was a hero of the Empire; a decorated warrior who had stood shoulder to shoulder with her men in Harrisburg and led a successful last ditch defence, even as official regulations would have punished her for doing so. Thanks to her actions and that of many others like her during the battle, that silly bit of legislation had been thoroughly scrapped in the next official Parliamentary session, leaving the choice of being at the frontlines with their men up to the officer's discretion.

So calling off the operation was out of the question. He couldn't, and _wouldn't_, override his superior officer. No matter how much his gut told him to do so.

The breaks during their rides became more infrequent as they neared their destination, having already gone through two full days of riding. It was harrowing, and the horses were going to need a _lot_ of rest after they reached the point, but they had made amazing time. Initial estimates had put their travel at four days; they would be reaching their goal in three and a half days.

'More time to scout the place out,' reasoned Willis, barely noticing as Treebark sent up the water in the puddle at his feet as he galloped past. It had rained the previous day, and while the sky was still cloudy, at least they wouldn't be pummelled by the rain today.

It had also been nothing short of a miracle that the wind had not turned against them. For the full ride, it had stayed consistently southerly, masking their scents far more effectively than anything Willis could have cooked up. It was as if heaven itself was favouring the Imperial cause.

'Yes, and next thing you know, we'll be shouting God Wills It as we ride into battle,' the sergeant thought sarcastically.

"How much further?" he heard one of his men shout behind him. Miles, no doubt.

"Four hours!" answered Jameson with equal sound level.

Willis gave a silent thanks to the deities that be that his party had at least one wizard (having two was simply blissful to him). It made tracking and cartography so much simpler. Jameson had been given the coordinates of the place in question, and so now he used his magic to guide the group, and would call directions as they approached the relevant areas.

"Any changes?!" shouted Willis. He knew Jameson was quite focused on his task to get them to the right place, but it didn't hurt to ask.

"Alter course northeast in forty minutes!" shouted back Jameson. "Terrain's going to start slopping down to the path between the mountains! We need to stay clear of it!"

Willis gave an inaudible grunt of acknowledgement, focusing his attention on his horse as the beat whinnied plaintively. The hard ride was starting to take its toll on the poor horse, and Willis knew it. He rubbed the stallion's dark neck reassuringly and with obvious affection.

"Hold it together, Treebark, we're almost there," he whispered as he leaned forward, obvious worry in his eyes for his horse. "Just a little longer."

Whether or not the horse could understand, Willis didn't know, but it did seem to him that the stallion seemed more determined as its hooves began to increase the pace slightly. Behind the dark leader, the other horses were similarly increasing their speed, blindly following their leader's prompt.

Soon, they had reached the area Jameson had been talking about, and that's where his wizard shouted out a warning.

"Map's indicating unknown life-forms headed south, northeast of us!" he shouted. "They don't seem to have noticed us, but they're moving amazingly fast!"

That warranted further investigation, in Willis' professional opinion. Raising his right hand, he motioned for the horsemen to follow him as he pulled Treebark's reins to the right, making the stallion move to his desired direction.

They rode for ten minutes before Willis had Jameson check the enemy positions again. The resulting answer surprised the veteran sergeant.

"They've completely passed by us!" Jameson had said disbelievingly. He checked his map spell to make sure he hadn't botched things up. He hadn't. "They're already two miles south of us!"

Willis couldn't help but gape at the man's claim. His first instinct was to demand that he try his spell again, certain he had botched it up, but having seen Jameson do that before he recanted, instead deciding to trust the wizard. Still, that meant there was an exceptionally fast moving group of life forms headed south towards the Imperial Army column.

He had to make a decision, fast. The only way to beat them to the column was for Jameson to Apparate, but that meant stopping their ride north exactly where they were, since Jameson had to Apparate to places he had seen, lest he risk non-lethal dismemberment (a concept Willis still couldn't wrap his mind around). Still, it was worth the wait if it meant the Army was aware of the imminent potential danger.

Raising a fist, he had the group halt their ride and immediately turned to Jameson as the horses slowed to a halt. "Get back to the vanguard of the column and let them know what's coming, _now_!" he barked out the order. Jameson gave his superior officer a serious nod and promptly disappeared from his saddle, his horse barely registering the absence, used as it was to the wizard's disappearing act.

To the rest of the group, Willis levelled a serious expression. "Their tracks couldn't have been more than a mile or so from here. Miles, you and Porter guard Jameson's horse. O'Neill, you're with me. We're checking out the tracks. If we're not back in an hour, assume the worst."

With that, the sergeant and his designated partner rode off, Willis at the head of the two-man squad. He had a feeling that whatever he'd find, he wouldn't like it, and though he would have loved to have a wizard on hand, neither Jameson nor Hilliard were on hand, so he had to make due without excessively breaking down the group and leaving them all vulnerable to lone ambushes.

O'Neill and he rode for about fifteen minutes before they reached a sight that surprised Willis. He had been expecting tracks, of course, but this was something else. The very earth around the tracks seemed dead, and the grass immediately surrounding the tracks were in flames. It wasn't dangerous enough to warrant a wildfire alert, but enough that it caught his attention.

"What the hell?" he mumbled to himself as he and his comrade neared the tracks. He barely held onto his reins as Treebark seemed to writhe in fear beneath him. Something about the tracks was seriously affecting his horse, and it was driving the poor animal out of its mind with fright. Normally, only predators ever did that, and humans weren't counted in this category, since Treebark and his fellow equines had been bred for wartime activity. Whatever had caused the tracks were making the veteran horse quiver like a paranoid foal.

Out of the side of his vision he could see that O'Neill was having similar trouble keeping his own stallion in line.

"Easy, Swifthoof, easy!" O'Neill was trying to reassure his grey stallion, but the animal was paying him no heed as it tried its best to go against his rider's orders to move towards the tracks. Looking at his superior officer, O'Neill's worry was clear to Willis. "What the heck's the matter with Swifthoof and Treebark, sarge? They've never been this spooked before!"

Willis shook his head in the absence of a good explanation. "No idea. Better take them a bit away from them and come back ourselves to take a look."

O'Neill seemed to agree with the idea and followed his sergeant away from the tracks, far enough that the horses seemed a little more at ease. There, they dismounted and, patting their horses reassuringly, made their way back to the tracks on foot, rifles in hand and primed for use.

As expected, Willis had no idea what had made the tracks, even upon closer inspection. They were nothing like any animal he'd seen make. To him, it looked like whatever animal had made these were a cross between a hoofed animal and a bird. The back of the print was circular, but the forefront was splint into three, thin, finger-like prints, with a hole about an inch further away from each indicating the presence of long, sharp claws. Whatever it was, it was vicious, Willis knew.

"I've never seen anything like this," he admitted to O'Neill when the private had asked his sergeant for an opinion. "Ever. Not in ten years of scouting and tracking."

"What do we do about it?" asked O'Neill then. It didn't help them much if they didn't know the animal that made the prints, after all. Still, the burning grass around the prints made Willis nervous.

"We should report this to HQ," said Willis as he picked up his rifle again. "Whatever made this could be of Riddle's creation. I mean, look at the bloody grass, for chrissake! It's bloody burning!"

O'Neill nodded, absently noticing that his sergeant seemed a lot more exciteable than usual. That meant he didn't like what he'd seen. "So we ride back to the others and have Jameson pop back to HQ again?" he asked.

Willis shook his head. "No. Another trip won't leave him in any condition to do scouting when we reach the path the Colonel showed us. We radio back."

O'Neill's eyebrows shot up. "The enemy could intercept the transmission," he reminded his superior. It was true. That was why the communicator spells were invented, since even the Death Eaters couldn't tap into the spell-lines. Radio waves, however, could be intercepted via magic or technology, making it a very insecure method of communication, however fast it was.

"We haven't a damn choice," replied Willis as he led O'Neill back to the horses. "We need them to know fast, and there isn't a communication line set up to report to HQ quick enough. Radio's what it's got to be."

O'Neill didn't protest at his sergeant's final decision, but it was obvious he wasn't all that excited about it.

The duo quickly mounted up on their respective horses and rode back to where Miles and Porter were supposed to be waiting for them along with Jameson's horse. Instead, they found Jameson with them, looking a little winded at the amount of magic he'd used to quickly Apparate to the HQ and back.

"That was quick," commented Willis as he approached them. Jameson nodded wearily.

"The Brigadier ordered a squad of dragons to check it out. They reported a trail, but nothing on their sensors. It's likely they've turned back and are avoiding us," explained the wizard soldier.

That didn't make sense to the sergeant, however. Such stealthy creatures would have easily been able to elude pursuit, and there was no reason for them to backtrack. "Did the Brigadier say anything else?" asked Willis.

Jameson shook his head. "He just agreed with Colonel Bones' suggested scouting spot and ordered for us to go ahead and not worry about the contacts."

Willis frowned in personal disagreement, but chose not to speak up. After all, despite his personal objections, the Brigadier hadn't been promoted for nothing. The man was a good soldier with a sound head on his shoulders, not one of those bumbling armchair generals. If they couldn't trust the man who'd crushed the enemy column in Harrisburg's central island, who could they trust? Moreover, the man was a close confidante of the Iron Duke; if this was a problem, he was sure the Iron Duke would have told the Brigadier.

Willis sighed. Maybe he was just overreacting. Motioning to the four soldiers under his command, he waited until they were all saddled up before gently kicking Treebark in the sides, prompting the proud horse to move forward. They had a destination to reach, after all.

* * *

Back at the forest, Susan's hunt for the alleged contacts heard by Hilliard wasn't doing so well. The redheaded Colonel was, after about two days of searching (which was more than she had planned to give this detour), she was beginning to think they were being played with.

The hunt had started well enough. Once they had reached the spot Hilliard had seen, she and her two assigned soldiers (including Hilliard herself) had found matching tracks that were unusual enough to have piqued their interest. They were circular at the back and almost bird-like at the forefront, and judging by the holes in the ground about an inch in front of the tip of the bird-like finger impressions, she was willing to bet whatever it was had big, sharp claws. Her professional instincts also told her it was probably four-legged, given the depths of the prints and the almost universal equidistance from each other. More eerily was the fact that the grass around it seemed to have burned to ash.

"This doesn't make sense!" she growled to herself as she, Hilliard, and O'Hara quickly made their way through the denser parts of the forest on foot. They had to leave their horses behind about two hours ago due to the dense flora.

"This is most unusual," admitted O'Hara laconically. "The creatures seem to have taken great pains in circumventing any possible trackers."

Susan hadn't been aware that she'd spoken her thoughts out loud, but nonetheless deigned O'Hara with an agreeing nod as they tirelessly pushed through the dense bush.

Hilliard, who had been the cause of what was quickly looking to be a wild goose chase, was red in the face with embarrassment, even as she trailed behind her two squad-mates. "I'm sorry this has taken so long," she told her comrades.

She was rewarded with a frown from Susan. "We're not prancing around aimlessly, Hilliard. Whatever this creature, or creatures for that matter, are, we need to find out. They've apparently been tracking the column for a while now."

"What about the order from HQ?" asked O'Hara, smoothly entering the conversation. "The Brigadier said that the sergeant found something similar up north, but were ordered to move ahead regardless."

Susan couldn't help the frosty look on her face as Neville was mentioned. "The Brigadier," the word was spoken so coldly that Hilliard shivered, "is underestimating the importance of this. Without realizing it, he's confirmed the sighting of two more such creatures north of us, and with these tracks, we've established that at least two more exist. We need to find out what they are, and what they want with the column."

"Is it not possible they are merely creations of the Death Eaters?" asked O'Hara. "Biologically engineered predators for their amusement?"

Susan nodded, even as she pushed aside a branch in her way. "I thought about that," she admitted. "It doesn't add up, though. If the predators look anything like what I'm thinking based on those tracks, they would have used them against us in battle. They haven't, so I'm fairly certain they aren't responsible for their existence."

"What about Riddle?" asked Hilliard, following O'Hara train of thought.

Susan was a little more reticent in nodding this time. "Again, I thought about it, and on the surface it makes sense. However, if he does have such predators, why not launch them onto the column proper? Why all this circumvention? It's not like they could communicate with humans in our language."

Susan froze in her tracks at that moment. Couldn't they? She'd seen plenty of things in her time that would not have made sense to a normal person's point of view; centaurs, goblins, house elves, mermen…all of these creatures were non-human, but all possessed the power of understandable speech and thought rationally. What if these creatures did too?

Beside her, she could see that O'Hara had reached a similar conclusion, if his serious-looking frown was any indication. Hilliard, however, didn't seem to catch on, as she looked at both O'Hara and Susan in confusion.

"What?" asked Hilliard, confused.

"We…may have a problem," spoke O'Hara, his voice slow and careful. Susan wanted to roll her eyes at just how much of an understatement that was. Problem didn't come close to just how big an issue this was. If the four-legged creatures were intelligent and capable of human speech, then they were all in big trouble. This led her to her second revelation.

"We're being played," she concluded out loud, having pieced together what she knew.

O'Hara seemed confused for a moment before thinking things through and nodding. Hilliard alone seemed lost.

"What are you talking about, sir?" she asked.

Susan slammed back a fist into a nearby trunk, teeth gritted in embarrassed anger. "We thought they were animals relying on instinct to avoid trackers, but what if they could _think_?" she posed rhetorically, since O'Hara had apparently understood her initial conclusion. "We've been following a dead end. The real tracks probably separated from these fake ones where you heard the bushes rustling, Hilliard."

Hilliard still looked confused. "But we searched the area! There wasn't anything but these tracks on the ground!"

O'Hara had a look of sudden understanding, even as Susan raised a hand to cover her eyes in frustrated revelation. "They're using the trees," she said through clenched teeth. O'Hara nodded in agreement. "We thought they were exclusively land-dwellers, but they're using the bloody _trees!_"

"This is a most unusual predator," noted O'Hara, suddenly looking _very_ concerned. "It is displaying levels of intelligence either at or above human intellectual potential."

"But if that's true…" started Hilliard, looking much more worried than she had seconds ago, "…then shouldn't we tell sergeant Willis and the others? They could come back and help us!"

O'Hara glanced at Susan thoughtfully. "Could you Apparate to the meeting point, Colonel?" he asked curiously. Susan shook her head.

"I can't remember the details of the place well enough to Apparate safely. I'd likely splinch myself, and that'd make the whole thing pointless."

O'Hara nodded. "Then we need to let at least HQ know about this. We've been scouted out. It's likely the element of surprise is lost to us now."

Susan nodded. "I agree. Hilliard, we're heading back!" she informed her second subordinate, who nodded firmly. Checking her watch and glancing up at the sky for the sun's position, Susan grimaced. "They're likely to have made it past the forest by now and onto the plains. We'll really need to hurry up if we're going to catch up to them."

O'Hara and Hilliard both agreed tacitly with her judgment and set off after her when the redheaded Colonel rushed back onto their tracks, quickly leading the way back to where they'd left their horses. They were making good time, this time around, as they weren't looking for additional tracks or any signs of weird animals. So by the time they found their horses, only forty minutes had passed since they'd followed the wrong trail, and then ten minutes since they had decided to come back.

"What the _fuck_?"

To find that their horses had been butchered and lay dead and decomposing on the ground.

Susan looked horrified at what she was seeing, and O'Hara seemed deadly serious. Behind them, Hilliard could be heard vomiting into a nearby bush, so revolted she had been by the sight of their horses lying torn apart on the ground. It was like a predator had jumped them and fed on them until satiated, then left the remains. Overall, it was not a pretty sight, and it took Susan's entire willpower not to heave at the remains.

"They seem to have guessed our next move, sir," noted O'Hara.

Susan swore. This put a major crimp in their plans. With HQ having moved along with the column, it would take them days on foot to reach them, and even then only if they ran nonstop.

"This is insane!" Susan wanted to yell. There was simply no way she was going to accept that anyone could have played them this well and have four legs. Whatever creature had done this was obviously not natural, and had exceeded itself in derailing the scouting force of this wing of the Imperial offensive.

"The road through the forest is a few minutes from here," noted O'Hara, trying to find a solution to their problem. "If we can get back on route, that would be one less concern in our predicament."

Meanwhile, Hilliard had lost her footing, disoriented from the retching as she still was, and stumbled into a few bushes. There, she let loose a shriek the likes neither O'Hara or Susan had ever heard before, causing the two war veterans to snap their heads towards her direction.

"Hilliard?!" called out Susan in alarm. O'Hara was much less vocal about his surprise, instead choosing to run straight towards his comrade. One he'd pushed past the bushes she'd stumbled through, Susan heard him swearing so vulgarly that it made her blush slightly. "O'Hara?! What the hell's going on?"

"Colonel, you need to see this," was all O'Hara would say.

Very worried right now, especially given the stony tone in O'Hara's words, Susan quickly walked over and peered over O'Hara's shoulder as he held the bushes apart.

At his feet was Hilliard, who had her hands over her mouth and seemed to be sobbing, judging from the sounds she was making and the trembling of her shoulders. Looking up from the shattered soldier, she could see why.

Two Imperial soldiers were lying against a nearby tree, their uniforms shredded apart and bodies wholly incomplete. It was quite clear they were dead, and that whatever had done the deed had allowed itself to feast on the soldiers. Unfortunately, that meant she couldn't tell who they were.

"Okay, this has just gone from bad, to so much more worse," summed up Susan effectively.


	35. Chapter XXVIII: Pieces of the Puzzle

_AN: And so, after a horrendous leave of absence after my previous computer committed suicide by spontaneous combustion and took all my work with it, the series continues. Chapters may be updated slower than usual, as I'm being forced to rewrite everything that was lost in the incident. Please be patient. Cheers, Marquis Black._

* * *

Willis had to give it to the Colonel—the lady knew her business.

The location she had provided the scout team was an amazing scouting point, as far as such locations went. Nestled between two mountain rises was a small outcrop that overlooked the entire Hogwarts valley. Hidden away by the trees and bushes that littered it, Willis and his reduced team could easily gather information on anything going on in the valley without ever being noticed.

At present, they were hard at work in analyzing the Hogwarts wards.

"Got a signal yet?" asked Willis as he lowered the binoculars from his eyes, having found nothing interesting on the grounds themselves. He was talking to Miles, who was fiddling with a strange machine that looked like a bass amplifier with an antennae on top.

Miles shook his head in the negative as he continued to turn the various knobs, his tongue slightly stuck out between his teeth. "Nothing yet. Whatever's been done to the wards, it's being incredibly tough to tune into."

Naomi Porter, the only female left in the squad after the Colonel had taken Hilliard with her, stood watch a few feet away, her rifle pointed down. "Not the first time the Ward Spectrometer has a tough time," she reminded them. "Remember the bitch of a time we had in Toulouse?"

Miles chuckled. "I thought we'd never get the damn thing running," he replied, clearly remembering the event.

"Can't really blame it, though," mentioned Jameson as he relaxed by sitting down against a tree trunk. "The Spectrometer was rushed through manufacturing based on yet-untested theory. It's only because we needed it that we got it. Otherwise, it wouldn't have come out for what? Three more years?"

O'Neill nodded, lighting up a cigarette. "Nothing beats Weasley & Weasley products, looks like," he agreed. "If it were them, the machine would probably work."

That went without saying, really. W&W Corporation was the biggest supplier of damn near everything in the Empire. Starting as a joke shop, the twin Weasley brothers had expanded their mercantile focus onto everything they could think of. They had begun making an even greater killing once they had successfully recruited Alexandra Potter-Roberts and their older brother Bill to work for their R&D department. The Potters themselves were big investors in W&W Corporation, owning about 20% of the stock.

"What is this, a commercial?" demanded Willis grumpily. "Get the damn thing working, Miles. The column's probably about five days away, and we've still got bupkis."

"I could transform and check out the grounds?" suggested Jameson, but Willis shook his head.

"Not until we know just what the wards are. If one of them is a physical ward, you'll collide and probably hurt yourself."

Porter raised an eyebrow. "What are the odds of that? If Riddle could pull off something like that, why not expand it much farther away, like he did with the Electromagnetic ward?"

O'Neill shook his head, his cigarette hanging limply from his mouth. "Riddle's a crazy bastard, but he's also got an ego to match. Keeping his opponents out of his turf would just feel like cowardice to him—Nah, he's willing to weaken his opponents, but not run from them." He blew out smoke.

Willis gave a short nod at O'Neill's assessment, but was determined to have the wards analyzed before sending Jameson on his scouting flight. "Regardless. Miles, get the Spectrometer working soon. We're wasting valuable time here."

"I'm working, I'm working…" grumbled Miles, even as he bit down on the handle of the screwdriver he had pulled out to tinker with the stubborn machine. He tried to mumble something through the screwdriver, but it came out unintelligible. Willis was certain that the intended message was not fit for polite company.

Half an hour passed before Miles thumped the machine on the side with a fist and a low, mechanical whir started to sound louder and louder. The Imperial scout got to his feet with a pleased grin.

"Right, got the thing working now. Any ward we want readings on first?" he asked, getting ready to turn the knobs as required.

Willis raised his binoculars to look at the grounds again. "Get a general reading first, then look for physical wards and then make your way through the defensive wards list," he ordered.

Miles nodded, twisting the knobs on the machine appropriately and pressing a few switches here and there. The Spectrometer really wasn't all that user-friendly with its interface. "General reading coming right up."

A few beeps later and a sheet of paper was released from a small, slot-like opening. Miles quickly snatched it from the machine and began reading it for the results.

"Well?" asked Porter, somewhat impatiently.

Miles gave her a mock glare for pushing him before relating the results. "Okay, according to this lousy thing, we're dealing with twenty four different wards, of which seventeen are defensive countermeasures, and the rest are miscellaneous."

"Check for physical wards," ordered Willis without skipping a beat. Miles quickly repeated his previous actions with the Spectrometer, albeit inputting a different configuration this time. Once again, the machine whirred to life and ejected a sheet of paper.

"None," was Miles' declaration. "Looks like O'Neill's right. The bugger's not interested in keeping us away—just weakening us."

Willis ignored the grumble from Miles and the snicker from Jameson, mainly due to the fact that he could also hear the sound of coins jingling, which meant Willis had probably lost a bet on the presence of physical wards—probably to O'Neill.

Instead, the somber-looking sergeant lowered his binoculars again and addressed Jameson without turning to look at him. "Jameson."

Jameson had a good idea what was coming, but indulged his superior nonetheless. "Yeah?"

"You're up."

Jameson grinned. "Finally."

Jameson got his feet slowly, enjoying the stretching feeling it gave his legs to do so. He then began doing stretching exercises in order to increase his overall flexibility, focusing particularly on his legs. One wrong slip and he could die.

None of his comrades seemed to be particularly distracted by him, either. They had all seen his performances previously, so while a newbie might find his antics suicidal, they found it ordinary.

"How long this time?" asked the only remaining wizard in the group as he stretched his arms now. It was always good to know these things before he actually went through with his job—it made sure he didn't wander off.

Willis considered the question for a moment before finally saying, "The usual. Ninety minutes. Come back earlier if you find something."

"Any other parameters?" asked Jameson as he bent backwards alarmingly. Surprisingly, his spine didn't seem all that stressed by the act.

Willis shook his head. "Nah. Should be a normal scouting run," he assured his subordinate, before mentally adding, '_Well, I hope so, anyway._'

Jameson nodded as he stretched his arms behind his head. "Right, then. Who wants to time me this time?" It was a personal game of Jameson's to see if he could beat his record every time he did this sort of thing.

Porter rolled her eyes and looked away while O'Neill kept staring at him blankly, his cigarette still lit. When it was apparent no one would speak up, Miles groaned out loud before getting to his feet slowly. "Fine, fine, I'll do it," he said wearily as he reached into his pants pocket and retrieved a timer.

Pressing a button on the top-left, he nodded at Jameson. "Whenever you're ready," he said.

Jameson gave his comrade a cheery grin before getting into a rocket start stance about twenty meters away from the edge of the cliff. "Count it down, Miles!" he prompted, causing the soldier in question to roll his eyes.

"Three…two…," Jameson raised his buttocks a little higher in anticipation, and Miles felt mischievous all of a sudden. "One and a half…"

A snort from O'Neill and a snicker from Porter, while Willis stayed silent, though the slight twitch in his lips gave him away. Jameson groaned, dropping his head in mock disappointment.

"Really, Miles? _Really_?" he demanded wearily.

Miles cocked Jameson a grin. "Fine, fine. One…" he resumed counting. "GO!"

Just as he pressed the button on the timer, Jameson sprang into a sprint, quickly accelerating to his max speed. Even as the man neared the cliff edge, he made no moves to stop, and instead grounded his left foot deep into the ground at the edge and jumped clean off the cliff.

"There he goes," commented Willis blandly as he looked down the cliff.

"He's still a crazy fucker for doing this, I say," added O'Neill as he took a deep drag from his cigarette.

Porter shrugged, watching from the corner of her eyes as Miles approached the cliff side to look down towards the falling Jameson. "Everyone has their habits. Normal soldiers clean their rifles, Navy guys sweep the decks…"

Miles pressed the stop button on his timer. "…and our only Animagus in the group likes to jump off cliffs as he transforms," he finished, ducking his head backwards just in time to avoid colliding with a black raven that had flown straight up the cliff.

"Did he beat his time, at least?" asked O'Neill, holding his cigarette between two fingers.

Miles checked his watch before shaking his head. "Nope. Zero point two seconds too slow."

"Zero point three would have made him a pancake on the rocks below," reminded Willis as he looked down the cliff side. "The fool was lucky he stretched and loosened up for the transformation."

"You think he'll ever stop doing that?" asked Porter as she kept her gaze on the sea of trees behind the group.

Miles let out a barking laugh. "Hardly! The man's too much of an adrenaline junkie. I heard he used to pull this sort of thing off before the joined up, just for kicks."

Willis decided not to comment on that—partially because he couldn't. It sometimes boggled his mind how some people found near-death situations a thrill. As if dodging bullets and spells wasn't enough!

Putting that thought aside, Willis lowered his binoculars and turned to his remaining men. "Okay, we've got an hour and a half before Jameson comes back. Miles, get back on the Spectrometer and get a full readout on all the wards set up around the castle and its grounds. O'Neill, you switch with Porter in thirty minutes, and I'll take the third shift after that."

"Yes, sir!" came the expected chorused reply.

* * *

An hour passed and Jameson had not seen fit to return from his scouting flight yet, which somewhat reassured the scouting team, since it meant there were no nasty surprises waiting for them that the Animagus could make out. So, while the only wizard in the group kept his flight going, Willis was determined to take advantage of the 'so far, so good' situation by scouting out the rest of the area.

"Okay, so we know that the Colonel found a passage that leads down into the valley below, right?" he reminded his men, who nodded as one. "We're going to find it and assess its viability."

Porter raised her eyebrows. "What for?" she asked. Typically, she would have shut her mouth and followed orders, as she was supposed to, but the fact that the Imperial column already had its own designated way into the valley conflicted with her sergeant's intentions. "The column's already got its way in, doesn't it?" she continued, voicing her thoughts.

Willis nodded. "Yeah, they do," he confirmed. "But it's much further away than this path of the Colonel's is, and it strikes me that if we know that path is there, then so does Riddle. Unlike the Colonel's passageway, the designated one is well known and documented. If we can find them another way in, then we'd be giving our lads an advantage."

Willis was pleased when Porter, Miles, and O'Neill seemed to easily accept this logic. People who were on what they thought were wild goose hunts tended to overlook things in their reluctance.

"Right, let's leave Jameson a message that we'll be gone for the next hour, just so he doesn't freak out when he finds no one here in thirty minutes," said Willis as he nodded to O'Neill, who promptly wrote out the note on a piece of paper in big, bold lettering. They couldn't send him a magical message because none of them were Wizards, and even if they could, such messages would have given away their position. Radios were out, partly due to the wards, and also because Jameson had no way of using one when he was transformed into a raven.

Once the note was tacked to the most obvious tree near the edge of the outcrop, as well as a continuously shining red bulb to catch Jameson's attention in case he missed the very obvious note, the foursome made their way into the dense forest that hid the outcrop and headed west, where the path Susan had showed them allegedly lay.

The walk through the forested area was not all bad, in truth. The air was dry and cool, but not so much as to freeze their bones—cold enough that being clothed with their light trench coats was good enough to keep them warm. Also, they had thus far seen nothing more of the strange tracks that had previously alarmed them, and all four were seriously considering writing off the previous encounter as a random occurrence—probably some genetically bred plaything of the Death Eaters that had finally found its freedom in its masters' deaths.

Finally, after about another hour's walk, they reached what they assumed to be the path Susan had told them about. However, to their surprise, it was not as small as she'd led them to believe.

Quite simply, it was actually rather wide. Wide enough for the Imperial column to march through, too. No crevices to fall into, either.

"D'ya think we might have gotten the wrong path?" suggested Miles after a moment of bewildered silence. All four of them were staring, dumbstruck, at the rather convenient way into the valley below.

"This is exactly where the Colonel said it'd be," reminded Willis after he double checked the information mentally. "Proportions are way off, though."

"Gee, ya think?" asked Porter sarcastically.

"Maybe the Colonel's memory was affected by her youth?" suggested O'Neill stoically. "She may have misjudged the path when she first found it."

"Missing a fifty meter gap between mountains is a heck of an oversight, O'Neill," pointed out Porter.

"Erosi—"

"_Don't_ even get me started, Miles," threatened Porter as she cut off her squad mate.

"I agree with Porter," concurred Willis eliciting a thankful look from the blonde woman. "Magic can explain a lot, but it can't explain this gap. Not unless it's been deliberately altered or the Colonel's memory's been tampered with. Something's wrong."

O'Neill and Miles exchanged a look. "Well, what are we supposed to do, then?" asked Miles in the end.

Willis sighed. He really, _really_ hated complications. "Let's go back and fetch Jameson. He can check the place out for magical alterations and whatnot. Miles, O'Neill, you two stay here and guard the place, just in case."

Both men nodded once and tightened their grips on their rifles. "Yes, sir!"

Willis turned his attention to Porter now. "Come on, we'll have to make good time for Jameson to be able to do his evaluation under sunlight."

With a nod, Porter made to follow him, only briefly turning to her two other squad mates to give them a cheery, cheeky wave. Miles responded with an amused grin, and O'Neill ignored it altogether and lit up another cigarette.

* * *

The duo found Jameson impatiently waiting for them at the outcrop.

"What the hell took you guys so long?" he demanded as he got to his feet. "It's been, what?" he checked his watch. "Two hours?!"

Porter shot him a tired glare, while Willis ignored him altogether and went to fetch a bottle of water from his knapsack. Jameson then noticed that the group was two short.

"Hey, where are O'Neill and Miles?" he asked, confused.

"Sarge made them stand guard at the Colonel's passage into the valley," explained Porter shortly as she gratefully accepted the bottle of water Willis had extended to her. "We need you to come with us to check it out for magical traps and illusions."

Jameson raised an eyebrow. "What about this place? We're just leaving it without any guard?"

Willis shrugged. "Haven't got the manpower for it, and this is more important."

Porter spoke up then. "Actually, sir, I'll stay behind," she offered. "It's not safe to leave the equipment unguarded, and I could use the break."

Willis gave her a critical look before reluctantly nodding. "Fine. Porter's on guard duty till we get back. Jameson, you're with me."

Jameson actually seemed happy to be given a reason to move around. Obviously, waiting in the same place for two hours had been like torture for the man. In fact, he had already started to go ahead, leaving Willis and Porter alone for a moment.

Willis gave his remaining female subordinate a hard stare. "Keep your eyes open," he told her seriously. "Jameson might be fine, but he's also very lucky. I don't want to come back and find you gone and our equipment missing, got it?"

Porter nodded in affirmation just as seriously. "I know. Got it, sir."

Willis just stared at her for a second before giving a final nod and turning to leave. Within seconds, Willis had disappeared into the foliage, leaving Porter to herself.

Sighing at finally catching a break, she looked around for a good guarding spot and quickly settled on a particularly high and foliage-dense tree. Slinging her rifle onto her back, she stretched her arms for a few seconds and cracked her fingers before firmly latching onto the tree's trunk. Once she was sure she had a good hold, she then pushed and pulled her way up the trunk until she found a good, thick solid branch that gave her both adequate cover and good line of sight with the outcrop. This way, no one would see her, but she would see them.

Satisfied with her guarding spot, she leaned back against the trunk, fastened her rifle's strap across her frame, and settled the weapon on her extended legs. If she had to wait for a few hours for her friends to come back, there was no reason she had to be in some uncomfortable position in order to do so.

* * *

Porter was startled awake by the sound of a few branches snapping. Silently cursing herself for having fallen asleep on duty, she nonetheless quickly rallied herself and subtly peered down into the small clearing below to see who had entered her domain. She relaxed when she saw it was O'Neill, Willis, Miles, and Jameson. Obviously, they had either succeeded, or withdrawn for the day.

Speaking of which, Porter judged the day to be settling into dusk, given the orange-purple colour of the horizon. The lads had taken their time, it seemed. Unfortunately, that didn't tell her whether or not they succeeded; they might have just decided to take it easy after successfully mapping out the mountain pass.

She was about to go down to meet them when something about their disposition struck her as odd. All four of them seemed to walking differently from before. Jameson tended to slouch in his walk; Willis was stiff-backed and militaristic; Miles was easy going but spry; and O'Neill was casual and indifferent.

Yet now they all walked like predators on the hunt: slightly leaning forward and their weapons up. A little off guard from this unusual behaviour, Porter hesitated in getting down. After all, she had heard of shape-shifting magic users. Instead, she shifted closer to the trunk of the tree and made herself as small as possible, all the while tightening her grip on her rifle. Barely at first, she could nonetheless start hearing the four beneath her start talking.

"—find her," Miles was saying. It didn't take a rocket scientist for Porter to realize they were talking about her.

"Look harder, then!" snapped Willis. Or, at the very least, his doppelganger. "You know our orderssss! No loossssse endssss!"

Porter arched an eyebrow. Willis had _never_, in all her years of knowing him, stressed out the esses in a word. Something was very wrong.

"The female must be here sssssomewhere…Sssshe can't have gone far…" noted Miles, in the same, hissing tone that Willis had spoken.

If she had her doubts prior to this, Porter held none now. This was not her squad. These were not the lads she had fought alongside of and slept under the stars with. Not the comrades she had grown close to and defended with her life.

Instead of worry and grief for her comrades, though, she felt boiling rage fill her. These…_people_ had probably done something to them and taken on their image. That alone was unforgivable in her book.

With all the expertise of a trained sniper, Porter smoothly lowered her rifle to eye level and quietly tracked the impostors. Whichever of the bastards gave her the first clean shot would be getting a new hole in their head. As luck would have it, her first target was Willis, who walked right into her sights as he roughly snapped at his comrades.

Porter was glad that her sergeant's impostor would be the first to go. It would be therapeutic. If she could take him down, then she was sure she would have no emotional qualms with offing the other doppelgangers.

Her rifle barely budged as she adjusted it and herself to get a better lock on the fake Willis' head. Porter's tongue was protruding between her teeth as she poured every drop of concentration and willpower she had into this one shot.

As the blonde woman finally put her trigger finger through the metal loop where the trigger hung, she proceeded to almost mechanically shut off her emotional responses to what she was planning to do. If she had been honest with herself, she would have admitted reluctance at firing at the fake Willis due to the fact that she _may_ have held feelings for the scruffy, older man. But that was irrelevant now. This was not that man. This was a man wearing that man's skin.

And he had to go.

Porter's index finger carefully touched the hair trigger on her rifle but did not pull just yet. The fake Willis was moving a bit, and she had to slightly readjust her aim all the time.

Then, quite suddenly, the fake Willis stopped walking around.

This was it.

Just as she was about to jerk back her index finger, Porter heard something right before a hand grabbed her by the mouth and everything went black.

"There you are."

* * *

"She fell?" asked Neville as he peered down the outcrop.

Willis nodded gravely. "It must have happened while the rest of us were out scouting the pass," he told his superior.

Neville didn't much like that scenario. The scouting team under Willis was one of the best in the service, and wouldn't have made rookie mistakes like that. Yet, the evidence was all there—the tell tale piece of ground that had crumbled due to pressure at the edge, Porter's rifle laying on the ground—it was all there.

"Did you retrieve her body?" he asked softly as he silently mourned the loss of a soldier under his command.

Willis nodded somberly. "It was not in the best of conditions after her fall, but we managed to retrieve it and give it a proper burial."

"Where?" asked Neville bluntly, catching Willis slightly off guard.

"Inside the forested area behind us, sir," answered Willis quickly. "We really wanted to have her body transported back to Harrisburg, but…"

Neville nodded. "The decomposition wouldn't have allowed it. I understand. I'm just glad that she was given a final resting place," he stated neutrally, before turning away from the cliff edge and returning to his escort.

The entire army column, after having successfully linked up with General Guinness' own force, had finally reached their destination—the only known path into Hogwarts Valley. That is, until Willis had contacted Neville and pointed out the other path they had found, which upon inspection led to an even better crossing angle towards the opposite Hogwarts docks.

Neville calmly made his way back to his camp, leaving the scouting team by themselves at the outcrop. Returning the occasional salute to his men as he passed them by, he made his way directly towards his command tent, where he had installed a communicator device that linked him to the _Invincible_.

At the entrance, he made sure to dismiss his escort before walking into the tent and closing the flap. He then pulled out his wand and casted a privacy charm throughout the inside of the tent—this way, his conversation would not be spied upon.

Standing on the circular platform on the floor, he patiently waited for the device to fire up, and after a few seconds, the holographic image of Harry Potter appeared, apparently sitting in his command chair.

"Speak to me, Neville," the soft voice belied the rising excitement in the Duke's eyes.

"It is as you foresaw," reported Neville with a respectful tilt of the head. "The pieces are in place. We are ready to move out at your command."

* * *

_Post-AN: Just to be clear, reviews are still welcome. Frankly, after the disappointing loss of my work, I could use the encouragement._


	36. Chapter XXIX: Alea Iacta Est

_AN: For those who don't know, "Alea Iacta Est" is Latin for "The Die is cast."_

* * *

_The Next Day, Daybreak_

The entire Imperial camp awoke to the sound of multiple bugles sounding out the Imperial version of _Reveille_. The effect of these many bugles carrying out the same tune was impressive. Men and women practically flew out of their tents towards the area where their designated shower stalls were, since whomever got there first would be guaranteed a spot, whereas those who lagged behind could very well end up going the whole day without one.

The camp, already a massive compound (since it had to house the 100,000 or so soldiers that comprised Neville's wing of the general attack), was now also buzzing with life as men and women dashed to and fro to get ready, even as the bugles rang out with calls of "Fall In."

As Neville left his own tent, having wisely decided to wash the previous night, he casually clasped on his Imperial-issued khaki Brodie helmet and observed his surroundings at the same time. Today was the big day, and it seemed like everyone in the camp knew it, judging by the excitement.

Last-minute preparations were being made, with sapper specialists running to and fro carrying large crates of what Neville assumed were the explosives they were going to need if the path up the docks was found blocked. It was unlikely, but it was also best to be prepared for such an eventuality.

To his left, he could see General Harry Guinness, the nominal CiC of the operation, leave his own tent, his Brodie helmet safely tucked under his arm while he scratched his scruffy beard with his free hand. Though Guinness was Neville's superior, there was no question that Neville was truly the man in charge in this operation. Guinness, of course, knew this, and had deferred to the younger officer appropriately. The man had no illusions of his own skill, and he knew that the Duke, possibly the greatest military mind in modern history, had handpicked his commanders with exceeding care. As such, who was he to protest?

Guinness seemed to notice Neville watching him at this point, and offered the younger man a casual salute, which Neville returned with a grin. There was no antipathy between the two. They both knew exactly where they stood, and neither thought it beneficial if bad blood existed between them.

"Chilly weather," commented Guinness as he followed Neville's example and strapped on his helmet. "Makes your blood feel cold, doesn't it?"

"Aye," agreed Neville. "Hard to think we're so close to the end," he admitted.

Guinness walked over to Neville and clasped a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about! If we all do our jobs, this will be over before we know it," he said confidently. "The men and I have complete faith in you and the Duke."

Neville chuckled. "No pressure, huh?" he joked, eliciting a laugh from the older man.

"None at all, m'boy," said Guinness with a grin. "Now then, how about we split inspections duties between the two of us, eh? It'll go much faster if we each take a chunk of the lads and inspect them instead of going through the whole lot."

Neville shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

Guinness smiled. In Neville's opinion, Guinness always seemed to be smiling. 'Must be a happy man," he guessed.

"Excellent! I'll take the lads I brought along and you deal with yours, deal?" he proposed. Neville wordlessly nodded and received a friendly clap on the back from Guinness. "Excellent! See you in a few, then."

Neville watched as his superior officer walked away, a little spring in his step. He guessed one of the reasons for the general's good mood was the fact that he, unlike most of the 100,000 soldiers gathered in the camp this day, would not be under any threat of death. Given the strict regulations on commanding officers being at the frontline, Harry had casually gotten around that by appointing Guinness—an otherwise unremarkable commander with a solid grasp on conventional strategy and logistics—as commanding officer and Neville as subordinate officer, clearing the way for Neville to lead the attack from the front. It was a wily plan, but no one could find fault with it.

A thought occurred to Neville. Turning to a passing aide—who seemed particularly anxious as he carried several rolls of maps in both arms—Neville stopped the man and asked, "Have we heard any word from Colonel Bones?"

Torn between being frustrated at being stopped in the middle of his errand and paying due respect to a hero of the Empire, the aide settled for a quick shake of the head. "Sorry, sir, but no. If you'll excuse me—" Barely had the man uttered these words before he took off again.

Neville frowned. He knew that the scouting team had been split up shortly after Susan had joined them—something about investigating some interesting tracks—but it was still odd that she had not made an appearance of some kind since said split. Not even a magical transmission had been made. This was very much unlike the fiery redhead he knew.

Still, Harry had told him not to worry about it; that he would have his people look for her while Neville led the attack. Neville felt grateful for that reassurance. If anyone could find Susan and the missing scout team, it was Harry and his men.

'_Speaking of which…'_

Neville turned to a passing aide. "Where are the elements that transferred from the First Legion?" he asked. He'd noticed that the few men he'd recognized from his Hogwarts days seemed to have disappeared.

Unfortunately, the aide didn't seem to know, and Neville quickly sent him off to continue his work, leaving the Brigadier standing amongst the chaos of the camp with a frown on his usually patient face.

The First Legion, dubbed the Snake Eaters, were the most enigmatic of the Six Legions—the core of the Imperial Land Forces. While there existed six more Legions, the first Six were considered the cream of the crop of the Imperial land-based forces. Of these six, however, the First was always shrouded in mystery. While very visible, no one seemed to know much about the actual operations of the First Legion. What little _was_ known was that the First served directly under Harry, even if they were nominally under the command of Field General Jacob Winters. It was one of those weird things where the men themselves totally disregarded the chain of command.

Not that Neville could blame them; Harry had been, previous to being shoved into the much more restrictive post of Imperial Air Corps Field Air Marshall, their commander, way back before the coup. Word had it that Winters himself would not move a finger without consulting with Harry first. That was why it was so surprising to have found elements of the First Legion imbedded into his attack column.

He'd wanted a chat with Lyles, at the very least, but for some reason, all of them had disappeared the day after the column had set up camp behind the protective barrier of the mountains that circled the Hogwarts Valley. It was positively nerve wracking to think that he had _lost_, in the literal sense of the word, about 1000 men and women. Without even engaging in battle.

How did one _lose_ a battalion, anyway? It wasn't like losing your car keys, after all!

Neville sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He just hoped that he was overreacting and that they had settled their camp with Guinness' lot. Otherwise, he dreaded having to explain to Harry how a full battalion of his finest soldiers had performed a vanishing trick right under his nose.

Shaking his head in a vain attempt to free himself of these worries, he straightened his helmet and walked towards the East assembly area of the camp; Guinness was obviously at the West assembly area. If all went well, the two men would meet up in the centre, where their tents were, and then proceed to give Harry via the communicator platform their confirmation codes, so he could know that they were in position and ready to attack. Depending on General Sulu's own speed, as well as that of Admiral Staples, the attack could be ordered at any point between that very day or a week from now.

As expected the crowd of soldiers in the assembly area was immense, and still growing. If it hadn't been for the few Warders he had managed to acquire from the main attack force putting up sound muffling wards, he was certain Voldemort would have heard them coming a _long_ time ago. As it was, the roar of the crowd moving into rank and file merely assaulted _his_ ears.

Seeing that a platform had been quickly constructed for him to stand on to address the troops, Neville walked onto it and firmly placed himself in view of all his men. As expected, once they had caught a glimpse of him, the din began to subside as they awaited orders. Fifty thousand soldiers in total awaited his commands—it was nerve wracking, in a way. But then, he had once been the commander of the Third Legion, so nothing really topped that in terms of nerve-wracking experiences.

Once the noise had abated to the point where he could talk at normal sound levels with the aides around the platform, Neville nodded to the multitude of officers lines up at his sides, thus giving them the unspoken signal to put their men at attention.

"Fifty-First Regiment!" shouted one officer.

"Twenty-Third Regiment!" shouted another.

"Thirty-Fourth!"

"Sixty-Second!"

The shouts of the officers carried loud and clear over the mass of soldiers, with the 25 different regimental numbers being shouted out in such a way that none present could miss them. Then, almost as if by previous agreement, all 25 regimental officers shouted out at the same time,

"Atten-tion!"

The effect was amusing, in Neville's opinion. The sound of 100,000 boots clicking together at attention made for quite the sound. 50,000 men were now stiff-backed and awaiting further orders. Neville took a deep breath, ready to address his men. A silent _Sonorous_ spell on himself ensured that his voice would reach even the furthest edges of the mass of troops.

"Men," he began, his voice reverberating throughout the area. "We have fought long and hard," Neville quickly made calculations in his own head. "Seven years, in fact. Seven years of warfare; of blood, sweat, and tears. Of toil and sacrifice!"

None in the crowd moved—Neville hadn't expected them to, either.

"How many brothers have we lost? How many sisters? How many graves have we dug with our own hands to lay to rest our cherished comrades?" he continued, his hands moving from his sides and gesturing as he spoke, almost with a life of their own. "All that sacrifice, all those tears…for this one moment in time!"

He lashed out with a hand towards the sky above his men. "This one moment! This one second, this one minute—this…one…day! The day when old sins are purged from this world! When all our burdens are finally relieved!"

Neville let that sentence hang for a moment before consciously drawing back his arms to his sides and then clasping his hands behind his back. He was back to his role of serious military officer.

"You are all veterans of the Imperial Army. None of you have only just entered this war," he stated plainly. "For that reason alone, I will go no further with the speeches. That is the Duke's forte. Instead, I will tell you what I have always told my men: fight well, watch your mate's back, and never give up. Even when things get bad, never, _ever_ give up."

Silence permeated the crowd as Neville finished his speech—a jarring difference from the reaction the troops usually had whenever Harry delivered one of his soul-raising, courage-inducing rallying speeches. But Neville was not Harry, and he knew this. Only Harry had that gift—Neville's was to merely lead by example.

Neville turned his head to give the order to inspect the men when a low murmur caught his ear, rapidly spreading throughout the crowd of men and women before him.

It was clapping.

To Neville's astonishment, the troops completely broke from attention to start clapping his speech, gradually growing into a cheer that rapidly spread throughout the thousands of soldiers. In the end, he could even hear them shout out the occasional "Three cheers for Longbottom!" or "Go Brigadier!"

It was a touching moment for him, considering that he had never _truly_ stood out in the limelight before. Certainly, his brief stint as the CO of the Third Legion had given him a bit of fame, but that had almost been entirely snuffed out when it was butchered in Canada and he was presumed dead. He had also distinguished himself in the defence of Harrisburg, but even that didn't come out as legendary as Harry Potter's perfect plan to destroy the Death Eaters in one fell swoop.

He was Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter's right-hand man. That was all he was: an appendage of the most powerful man in the globe.

Was that enough? Neville himself didn't know. Susan would have told him to do whatever he wanted; surpass Harry, stay beneath Harry, equal Harry—she didn't care what he did, so long as it was what he wanted to do.

Gods, he missed Susan. He missed her so much it hurt sometimes. He missed her even when he could see her. Back at the drop point, when she had actually approached him to yell at him, he had actually loved every second of it—it reminded him of the times they'd had together when she just let loose on him for doing something stupid. But she had left just as soon as the problem had been solved, leaving him alone again.

He knew he was at fault for the rift between them. He knew no amount of justification would make things right. But he also knew that he'd had no choice. He _had_ to follow Harry in his Harrisburg defence plan. It had been the only way to save the city from destruction. When his raven-haired friend had told him of the plan at first, he had been utterly sceptical about it, but since he was still freshly wounded from the massacre in Empire's Helm and completely unfit for duty, he had relented and chosen to wait before making his comeback.

Over time, he had then noticed that everything was falling into place just like Harry had predicted. It was like watching a puzzle slowly put itself together, and halfway through, Neville had understood what Harry had seen when he made his plan.

If the famous Third Legion returned immediately after the Empire's Helm disaster, then the enemy would have undoubtedly diverted even more troops to the attack, as well as accelerated their thrust into Harrisburg. The Imperial forces would have been totally overrun. Harry could not stop the entire Armed Forces from leaving Harrisburg on missions—especially if it so happened that whatever threat they were leaving to neutralize ended up being a big deal. So he had to manage the situation as best as possible with as little as possible.

And he'd done it.

It was the single most spectacular and thrilling battle Neville had ever experienced. Fighting in the streets of Harrisburg had been an eye-opening experience. It had rammed into him the exact importance of the battle, and its consequences. That was the moment he knew he had been right in following Harry's plan. Even if it meant the contempt of the woman he loved.

But even that sounded hollow to him in retrospect. It did not eliminate the pain of knowing the woman he loved didn't even want to look at him anymore.

Reality snapped Neville back into focus. The cheering was dying down, even as he had managed to scrounge up a thankful look on his face. Finally turning towards the officer nearest to the podium, Neville gave the order for the inspection to be carried out.

Predictably, the next thing Neville heard was, "Troops! Atten-tion! Prepare for inspection!"

EWEWEWEWEWEW

It had only taken about two hours to get the inspection of the whole of Neville's wing of the army done. He had then proceeded to meet up with Guinness at the centre of the camp, as they had planned, and both had then entered Neville's tent, where the communicator platform lay dormant.

Glancing at the older man next to him, Neville caught him taking in a deep breath, even as he personally leaned forward to activate the platform. This was a big moment for both men, so Neville didn't blame the older man for feeling the need to cool his nerves. Time, however, was not on their side, so Neville proceeded with the activation regardless.

Sure enough, Harry's image flickered to life as the platform was activated ('How on earth did they manage to make these things punch through the anti-technology wards, anyway?' thought Neville).

"Brigadier Longbottom, General Guinness," acknowledged Harry with a nod.

Both Neville and Guinness bowed briefly in respect, following protocol to the letter in this moment before the most important battle of the war. They had even taken off their helmets and had them tucked under their arms.

"What news do you have for me?" asked Harry. From the image provided, both men could see that the Duke was sitting in his command chair—probably on the deck of the _Invincible_.

Neville didn't even need to look to his side to know that Guinness wanted him to be the one to give the word.

"Your Grace," Neville began firmly. "We are ready to move out at your command."

Harry was silent for a moment, his eyes closing for just a second, before nodding once. "Sulu and Staples are in position as well. Wait for the signal, then proceed as planned. Over and out."

_Good luck_, he didn't say. He didn't need to, either. At the cusp of the greatest battle they would fight, it didn't seem like enough, and there just didn't seem to be words to deliver the appropriate feeling.

The image flickered out, and Neville and Guinness were once again left alone in the tent. Guinness had paled a bit since the conversation had begun, but Neville remained steadfast and neutral-gazed. He could not afford letting anyone down at this point. This was his last mission in the war, if all went well, and he would never forgive himself if he somehow messed it up.

"General Guinness," he spoke softly, but clearly. The older man turned his head slightly to look at his nominal subordinate. "We should get the men into position. Once the Duke has told General Sulu and Admiral Staples that we are ready, the signal will probably be sent soon thereafter. We must be ready to move out as soon as that happens."

"Yes, of course. Quite right," agreed Guinness somewhat nervously. The pair descended into silence then, and neither made a move to leave the tent. It was only after Guinness sighed loudly that he then broke the silence fully.

"I envy you, Longbottom," he admitted somewhat reluctantly.

"Sir?" Neville had turned slightly to look at his superior officer.

"You are young, and brave. Powerful, and determined," explained Guinness. "Whereas I am old and, though not frail, I am no use in battle any longer. I can only cover your back. Some soldier I am."

Neville said nothing. Instead, he turned towards the tent flap and grabbed his loose helmet from underneath his armpit and proceeded to strap it on as he walked out. However, even as he did, he gave Guinness one last message.

"Keep my back covered, General; I'll make sure to have the front crushed in return."

EWEWEWEWEWEW

On board the _Invincible_, the crew on deck were calmly and professionally carrying out their duties with an implacability that would have been the envy of the entire Armed Forces at this point in the war. Part of the reason for this was the aural presence of Harry Potter, the greatest Imperial hero in history, whose mere presence instilled in the men a need to remain professional and efficient. Another part of the reason for their unnatural calm was the fact that they were aboard of the most heavily armed and defended Airship in the world. Quite frankly, if they were worried about being brought down, then all the other Airship crews would probably go insane with worry.

Seated in his command chair, Harry was contemplating the state of his army; after getting off the communication line with Neville and Guinness, he now had a fully prepared and battle-ready army at his disposal. He went through every move they had done since even before landing on the British Isles, and reviewed every tactical decision since landfall. Was he missing anything? Was his hand overstretched, or was it perhaps underplayed? Had he concealed his trump cards adequately, or would Voldemort see right through his deceptions?

Harry sighed inaudibly. There was only one way to find out, and that was to start the attack. Not immediately, of course; Voldemort was probably expecting him to let loose his army as soon as possible. So naturally, he instead decided to delay the attack just long enough for Voldemort to start wondering whether it was coming or not.

Raising his left arm, he made a small motion that instantly brought an aide to his side.

"Yes, Your Grace?" asked the man deferentially.

Harry closed his eyes, his face the very image of calm. "Hold back the go ahead signal to Sulu for an hour," he ordered. "Furthermore, inquire as to the status of the shuttle inbound from Harrisburg. I want to know the moment it gets here."

The aide bowed in acquiescence before shuffling a few steps back and then leaving to carry out his orders.

Everything was set now. Well, everything except the last important piece of the chessboard. The King.

His eyes still closed, Harry called up his magic and guided it towards his curse scar, where it hovered for a split second before striking at it with all the brutality of a dagger. Despite the unbelievable, sharp pain that struck him, Harry did not flinch, and in less than a second, it was over. Taking a deep breath, Harry opened his eyes.

And smiled.

"Hello, Tom."

EWEWEWEWEW

Neville was now waiting patiently for the signal, at the very front of his troops. They were all kneeling down, conserving energy before they had to sprint the length of the Black Lake via the deployable bridge Neville _hoped_ Staples had brought with him. Otherwise, this was going to be the shortest flanking assault in history.

Sergeants and the occasional lieutenant were running, hunched over, along the rows of soldiers, making sure everyone was geared up and ready for the assault. Whispers assaulted Neville's ears as sergeants sometimes berated the occasional soldier for losing focus. One of the Majors slowly frog-stepped his way over to him.

"Anything yet, sir?" he asked in a hush. Even so close to their objective, they could not afford to run the risk of having their cover blown by loud sounds.

Neville shook his head. "Nothing. General Sulu is probably getting his artillery into position," he hypothesized. Glancing back at the man, Neville jerked his head towards the men. "You had best get back, Major. The moment that signal goes off, you're going to need to stick to your men like glue."

The Major nodded once before returning to the lines, leaving Neville alone once more at the front. Neither flags nor band were to accompany them this time. This time, it was a plain old fight to the death. No pomp and ceremony whatsoever; a dirty, gritty brawl.

Minutes ticked by and the signal did not yet grace Neville's view. His patience was not wearing thin just yet, but he _was_ wondering what was taking Sulu so long. Harry had told him that everyone was in place, so why hadn't the signal gone off yet?

"This is taking too damn long," he hissed under his breath as he stretched his knees by slightly elevating his posture and then once again kneeling. "What's taking so long, Sulu?"

He could hear the footsteps of the person coming up behind him as clear as day.

"Sir, the men are getting restless," spoke up a soft, female voice. Neville glanced back and saw that the woman in question was a lieutenant. Neville made a point of nodding at her in acquiescence before answering.

"I know," he admitted, rubbing his slowly stiffening hands. "I'm getting restless too. Nothing to be done about it, though. We can only wait until the signal's been given." Neville glanced back at the lieutenant then. "Get back to the line and try to soften them up, alright? It is _imperative_ that we do not cause any more noise than is absolutely necessary."

"Yes, sir," she answered, before slowly making her way back to the lines.

After about half an hour more of waiting, when Neville was about to just go back to the camp and call up Harry for an explanation for the delay, Neville's eyes were graced with the sight of a green jet of fire being fired into the daytime sky before exploding with a resounding boom.

Neville barely had a chance to take a deep breath before he turned his head to look behind him and nodded. "This is it!" he called out in as low a voice as he could without compromising the audibility. "Move out!"

Previously inactive, the column of soldiers slowly rose up to their feet and soon began to move out, wave after wave, with Neville at their head. As they entered the scouted out mountain pass and began going downhill, the column began to pick up speed, until they were all moving at a trot.

Neville could feel his mind practically going blank as he moved further down the passage towards the Black Lake's awaiting shoreline. Already he could hear the roar of the Imperial Army's artillery being fired on the gates of Hogwarts. The splashing sounds also told him that Staples had arrived and the consequent booms announced the firing of his fleet's cannons. That just left one wing of the assault to move into battle—his own.

His breath was all that he could think about, oddly enough. It seemed like the only noise he could hear, becoming louder with every step he took that brought him nearer to the very real and very dangerous battlefield ahead. He knew that the moment he set foot on the banks of the Black Lake, there was no going back. This was it—make or break, he would be on the frontline of this final battle.

Was it worth the risk?

Was it worth his life?

What would Susan say?

Where _was_ Susan?

Where were the men from the First Legion?

All of these questions faded to nothing the moment he realized he had left the passage and was now facing the Black Lake in its entirety, the deployable bridge fully laid out and awaiting its passengers.

No going back.

Even as he set foot on the metallic bridge, Neville took a deep breath. It would be the clarion call of his attack. The signal to his men that the battle, for them, had officially begun.

"CHARGE!"

* * *

_Post-AN: A recent review by Ryu4366 has brought to my attention that some may believe that I have strayed from the theme of the might of the Empire in these latest chapters and into "the hidden," as it was described. First of all, let me apologize if it seems that way. This was not my intention. The theme, as I think of it while writing, is still the might of the Empire; it's just that there are different ways to express might other than brute military strength._

_When dealing with the Death Eaters, brute military strength was used in order to make a point, besides winning. It was used to settle, once and for all, who was the strongest power in the world, and the lengths they would go to in order to protect themselves. With Voldemort, this approach is simply not usable. The might of the Empire, in this case, would serve no point other than just crushing some upstart, which would make many a country in the world a tad nervous, since it would show Imperial disposition to use excessive military strength to crush anyone who remotely looked at them badly._

_So instead, Harry has been building up "secret" plans to deal with Voldemort--a goal he has been hard at work with since before Harrisburg. Once Harrisburg was set in stone as the plan to take down the Death Eaters, Harry was able to use all the extra time to deal with the Voldemort question. In doing so, he has kept many things hidden, including from his closest subordinates. In fact, at this point, the only person who knows everything about the Voldemort plan is Harry himself. Not even Ginny, or his family know all the details._

_That being said, Harry hasn't changed his ideas about protecting his men from undue danger. This is still a very prevalent part of his personality. What has happened is that he doesn't actually know what Voldemort intends to do. He has a good idea of what the gist of Riddle's plan is, but he does not actually know it well enough to counter it. Harry's good, but this Voldemort is equally good. That's why this battle alone will be multi-chaptered, whereas others tended to get done within the same chapter (with the exception of Harrisburg).  
_


	37. Chapter XXX: Opening Moves

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

It was like the whole world had gone into slow motion.

Neville could only hear his own breath as he raced down—slowly, in his opinion—the deployed bridge atop the Black Lake. He could not even hear the sound of his men's footsteps behind him. Heck, he refused to even turn his head to make sure they were following. He had to keep looking straight ahead. Right ahead.

At the goal. At the objective. Between him and that was nothing. No cover, no enemies, nothing. Between him and the docks was a killing ground that most soldiers would die to have on their side.

If the enemy ever realized that thousands of troops were conveniently gathered on this one short piece of metal, then the whole assault could have very well been over in seconds. All they needed to do was to blow apart the bridge, and there went the flanking wing of the attack, leaving only Sulu's main body of attack to deal with.

It was fortunate, most fortunate indeed, that Staples had not deployed his fleet just yet. That would have been suicide. The roar of the cannons would have brought the enemy's attention on the Lake, and therefore the bridge. Of course, Neville had a device in his trench coat that essentially served as an "Oh, shit!" button in case the enemy ever wised up about the horde of Imperial soldiers crossing the Black Lake. It would deliver an impossible-to-confuse message to Staples' fleet that would get them topside immediately to provide covering fire.

'God, I hope they don't have dragons,' thought Neville briefly—the only coherent thought he'd had since he started this insane charge.

That was another morbid possibility. If the enemy had dragons, then the landlocked Imperial forces would be caught on the ground like sitting ducks, given that the Airfleet had been thus far unable to pierce the astoundingly strong wards surrounding Hogwarts airspace. In short, they were without any air support whatsoever.

But if the enemy had dragons _within_ the wards…

The idea was a frightening prospect.

Neville squinted his eyes as he ran down the bridge, his combat boots tapping against the metallic frame beneath him. How much farther _were_ the docks? It felt like an eternity since they began the assault. Looking around, it felt like they had only made it to the middle of the Black Lake.

Objectively, Neville should have known that crossing the _Black Lake_ would be no easy sprint. The aforementioned body of water was called a _lake_ for a damn good reason. Therefore, it stood to reason that they would need a few minutes to make it across.

But emotionally, Neville couldn't help but feel frustrated as he pressed onward and the goal only slowly came closer. His men would be _exhausted_ by the end of this run.

Neville consciously diverted his attention towards the sounds of battle at the front gates of Hogwarts. Could it be possible for him to have his men take a break at the docks before rushing up? The longer he delayed the attack on the castle proper, the more casualties would appear at the front gate assault, he knew; but if he rushed the castle with his men in an exhausted state, the flanking move would be easily swept aside.

Neville made the split second decision there to let his men rest. It was the sound tactical thing to do, after all. Sulu wasn't a pushover, either; Neville had no doubts that the African general would successfully lead the main assault within adequate casualty parameters.

Neville kept up his run, but now began to steady it so that he would reach the docks with still just about enough energy to secure the area and then let his men rest. He kept this up for a few minutes before a chill went down his spine.

A warning shout was all the alert he got before the ear-splitting screech reached his ears.

"_DRAGONS!_" he roared back at his men.

Indeed, the absolute worst opponent for the flanking column was now descending on them with frightening speed, their leathery wings curled around their body as they dived down towards their prey—their handlers undoubtedly reporting back to the castle right at this moment about the incoming surprise invasion from the lake.

From the corner of his eye, Neville could see that little by little, more of his soldiers were stopping to raise their rifles in an attempt to take down the flying predators. This was a very bad idea, he knew.

"_KEEP RUNNING!_" he yelled at the top of his lungs, stopping himself to wave on his men. The more alert of them heeded his orders and rushed past him. Those who didn't, Neville had to go to them to shake into obedience. "_DO NOT STOP. DO NOT FALTER. KEEP RUNNING!_" he roared out.

The cliffs where the docks were had to be the only hope they had, at the moment, of surviving the dragon attacks. Nestled under the curved cliff and holding the entrance to the stairway going up to the castle grounds, they were the only sanctuary he could think of to keep his men from getting burned alive or eaten by the incoming winged reptiles.

That was when Neville remembered his panic button. Shooting his free hand into his coat, he quickly pulled out the small device and, glaring up at the dragons, firmly pressed down on it, transmitting the panic message to the fleet underwater.

For a moment—one horrible moment—Neville thought the signal had failed. The dragons were still lunging down at him and his men, their mouths wide open for what Neville assumed was to soon become an incoming torrent of flesh-scorching fire. Their handlers, though he could not see them, were probably wide-eyed with excitement as they led their mounts down towards easy prey.

And then the bridge shook.

Slowly and gently at first, then a little more roughly. It soon felt like an earthquake had hit the Black Lake, and Neville was hard pressed to secure his footing on the bridge—several of his men didn't, and went overboard. They had to be pulled back on quickly before they sunk to the bottom of the Lake from the heavy equipment and clothing.

Then the water broke.

Well, to be more specific, the water began to swell upwards, to the awe of the foot soldier of the Empire. The swells began to appear throughout the Black Lake, all of them great in size and intimidating to behold. In fact, even the dragons had taken notice, and were swinging back up to reassess the situation.

_That_ was when the water broke, letting the water swells rush back into the lake proper and for the first time showing the metallic frames of the Imperial Navy's warships.

Proud, large, and incredibly over-gunned, the new toys of Staples' fleet, the _Basilisk_-class warships, broke the water surface with such a slow entrance to be labeled ceremonious. Its great guns on the decks of its fifteen-ship Battle Fleet shone in the morning daylight, even as they slowly whirred to life and rose up to face the sky.

Neville was momentarily breathless as he, for the first time, beheld the great ships. He had never had the privilege of seeing them before, as they had been only in production by the time of Empire's Helm, and had been completed only shortly before the current offensive. The docks had been off limits to damn near _everyone_ until then.

Just then, he felt the familiar chill in his right arm of a communicator spell being targeted at him. Deftly pulling out his wand from its holster at his waist, he tapped his temple and activated the link.

"_This is the H.M.S. Basilisk. Someone call for hellfire?"_

Neville grinned. It was the first true smile of gratification he had felt since the charge began. "This is Brigadier Neville Longbottom," he answered back through the spell, the cheering of his relieved men also flooding the communication line. "Right in one, _Basilisk_. Enemy bogies topside!" he relayed, his eyes drifting skyward towards the group of hovering dragons. "_Basilisk_, shatter their sky!"

"_Roger that, Brigadier. Basilisk warships opening fire."_

As promised, every gun that could point upward on the decks of the fifteen-ship strong Battle Fleet opened up on the sky above them, taking the dragons completely by surprise with the deadly effectiveness of their highly compressed _Reductor_ shells.

When the blasts finally came, it almost felt like the world had ended.

The resounding explosion damn near got Neville to instinctively hug the ground, safe though he was at this distance from the explosion. Instead, he let his eyes take in the catastrophic beauty of the _Basilisk_ warships setting the sky on fire.

The dragons had no chance at all.

Caught in the open by the as-yet unseen cannons of the Imperial Navy, the dragon handlers had not judged the danger of the Naval bombardment until it was far too late to evade the incoming hail of metallic death. The timed explosions of the shells themselves did most of the damage to the dragon squadrons in the air, almost immediately consuming tens of them at a time within the fiery blast orbs.

Neville's own pleasure was voiced out loud by the deliriously relieved troops around him—their charge nearly forgotten in the happiness of the moment. The cheers around him were ear-shattering, and many were waving their helmets in salute to the great Imperial ships.

And that was when the first of them went down.

It was totally unexpected, and completely caught Neville off guard. The man next to him had been waving his helmet like a crazy person at the ships in thanks when he had just as suddenly dropped dead on the bridge, his face still plastered with a goofy smile. The signs were clear: Avada Kedavra.

Neville turned his attention towards the docks and the cliffs above and his eyes widened; both areas were swarming with enemy fighters, and jets of light were racing towards the bridge and the people on it.

"_INCOMING!_" screamed Neville, jolting his men out of their happy stupor. Not quickly enough, unfortunately, as a dozen more of his men collapsed either from Killing Curses or other deadly spells.

Neville's coat was now splashed with blood as another man near him dropped to the ground from taking a slashing curse to the leg, severing it entirely. The man was down screaming, but Neville could do little other than to cauterize the wound with his wand and so stop the blood flow. If he didn't get his men moving, on the other hand, they were all going to die on the bridge needlessly.

"_MOVE OUT!_" he yelled, waving his men forward. "_TO THE DOCKS! GET TO THE DOCKS!_"

Slowly, the column seemed to snap out of its temporary stupor and began their charge anew, the momentary stop serving to replenish their diminished energies. Emboldened by the mighty display of Naval firepower, the foot soldiers of the Imperial Army charged down the bridge towards the docks, weapons raised and adrenaline-fuelled battle cries ringing in the air.

It was almost like something out of a war movie. Had there been dust on the bridge, the furious charge would have kicked up quite the dust cloud as the Imperial vanguard stampeded down the metallic bridge, shouting all sorts of slogans and battle cries as they delved head first into the awaiting enemy ranks.

This time, Neville was not able to be at the front, given the fact that he had been forced to go back for the few that had stopped moving when the dragons had first appeared. Instead, the charge was led by the few sergeants and lieutenants that had obeyed his orders to keep moving.

The first of these was cruelly cut down as he set foot on the docks, his chest exploding violently as a blasting hex hit him square in the middle. The second and third soldiers on the docks fared little better, but by the fourth one, the Imperial soldiers began fighting back and taking down the enemy, all the while surviving the actual landing. By the time Neville had personally reached the docks, the fighting had grown fierce and pitched, with both sides furiously fighting over control of the small docks.

A loud series of roars also pierced the sounds of battle as Neville approached the docks. Apparently, despite the continuous firing of the massive _Basilisk_ warships, the dragon squadrons had somehow managed to make it through the fire screen, diving straight for the crossing troops on the bridge.

Even as the deck Anti-Aircraft guns on the warships opened up on the incoming dragons, Neville knew that some would inevitably get through, and true to prediction, a couple of dragons swooped down on the bridge and, with fire breath and claw, tore a few gaps into the column. The bodies of the victimized soldiers flew clear of the bridge—many of them mangled or charred—and sunk into the depths of the Lake beyond rescue distance. On the decks of the _Basilisk_ warships, Neville could see the frantic movement of the ships' sailors trying to point out and bring down the swooping dragons. Neville really wanted to go back and help his comrades, but he knew that by himself, the situation wouldn't rightly turn around just like that. Instead, he had to keep his men moving and get the docks cleared so that the whole column could take a break within the stairways inside the cliff that led up to the castle.

From the looks of it, his men at the front were also starting to really need him—for the first time ever, they were being held in place by the enemy, without moving forward so much as an inch, and this was causing a rising sense of insecurity within the front line ranks.

With all the grace of a seasoned soldier, Neville quickly jumped onto the docks and slid into safety behind a wooden box. Why there were boxes on the Hogwarts docks, he didn't know, but found their presence convenient. Next to him, a common private was currently trying to make himself smaller than possible by tucking his legs as close to himself as possible. From the looks of the man, he was slowly getting mentally overwhelmed by the pitched fighting, and Neville couldn't let that sort of thing pass.

"What's the situation?!" he shouted into the man's ear, hoping to distract him long enough from his fears to function like a soldier should.

It seemed to work. Almost immediately upon recognizing the war hero next to him, the man seemed to snap back into soldier mode. "We've barely got ourselves a foothold, sir!" shouted back the man over the sound of explosions and firearms going off. A couple of metallic rings later and two more explosions had gone off—Neville guessed they were someone's attempt to flush out the enemy via grenades.

A quick peek over the crate he was hiding behind told him it had done no such thing.

Neville instead turned his attention back to the man next to him, and only briefly acknowledged the fact that two more had joined them behind the crates. Whatever it was that was inside them seemed to be enough to hold back the enemy from blowing up their cover, for which Neville was thankful.

Taking advantage of his momentary safety, Neville tried to think of a plan to get them out of their current predicament. If he just ordered a charge, it was true that he might win through sheer numbers, but the casualty count would probably be horrendous. Plus, he had to assume that not all of the enemy was human, which left a good deal of humanoid magical creatures that could easily overpower his men.

Neville peeked over the crate again to gather enough information on the enemy positions for a plan, but had to keep ducking every few seconds from spell fire. Finally, when he got enough information to feel satisfied, he turned back to the men he was hiding with, which had grown from three to about ten without him noticing. Apparently he wasn't the only one noticing the enemy's reluctance to hit the crates.

Ten, however, meant better odds for the crazy stunt he was thinking of doing.

"Okay, I've seen enough," he told his men, who nodded and seemed to be eagerly awaiting for orders. Neville involuntarily glanced back towards the enemy positions behind his crate, but quickly turned back to his men. "As it stands, we are well and truly _fucked_ if we stay here like this for much longer."

"We'd gathered that much, sir," noted one of the newcomers sardonically.

Neville nodded, going on as though he hadn't heard him. "The problem is, I'm too pretty to die," he had to work _hard_ not to break his tough guy façade with the looks his men were giving him. "And because I am too pretty to die, we're going to go over there and kick their arses till _they_ die."

A few of the men made guffaws at their leader's oddly-timed humour. Neville grinned at the reaction.

"How do we do that, sir?" asked one of the more level-headed soldiers, who was rolling his eyes at the whole attempt to lighten the mood, but had an appreciative smile nonetheless.

Neville pointed to all of them then. "One word: grenades," he told them. "Lob 'em right at the enemy, but don't take out the pin," he elaborated with a deadly serious look on his face. "I cannot stress that enough. Do _not_ take out the safety pin."

The men were now looking at him in a bewildered fashion. Grenades with the pin still inside were essentially useless! No better than rocks!

Neville, however, ignored the looks and continued explaining his plan. "Who here is the best shot?" he asked quickly. He had to wait for a few seconds before a couple of them raised their hand. "Any awards or contests I should know about?"

One of the two shrugged. "The Ninth Legion had a shooting tournament a few months back. I won second place," he mentioned. When he looked at his fellow shot, the man raised his hands in a placating fashion.

"I haven't participated in any tournaments. The guys in my platoon just say I'm pretty good with a rifle," he explained.

Neville looked at the first soldier. "Who was in first place?" he asked, curious. The man shrugged.

"Doesn't matter. Dragon got him while we were crossing."

Neville cringed at the news, but quickly digressed back to the matter at hand. As he relayed his idea to his men, he had a mischievous grin on his face, while they looked progressively more and more horrified at the sheer insanity of the plan.

"Understand?" he asked, once he finished outlining his idea.

Some of the men were shaking their heads, and one had his head between his hands.

"Mad. He's gone mad!" mumbled that one. Neville rolled his eyes at the over-the-top display. It wasn't like he was asking them to do something particularly suicidal. It was just…unconventional. Extremely so.

But definitely _not_ suicidal.

His men, on the other hand, seemed to object to this categorization, by the looks they were shooting him. Still, they had to assume that he knew what he was doing, given his rank and renown as a war hero. Therefore, although reluctantly, the group pulled out their _Reductor_ grenades from their belts and held them ready to throw. Neville had told them exactly where to throw them, and although none of them believed this would work, they had to give their commander the benefit of the doubt, crazy though his plan was.

Neville, for his part, was almost giddy with excitement at seeing his plan carried out. "Ready?" he asked them, getting into a serious state of mind. All ten of his fellow soldiers nodded firmly. Neville looked at the tournament shooter with particular distinction.

"Remember. Place the shot five seconds after you hear the damn things land," he told him seriously. The man nodded once before getting ready to throw, and Neville simulated him by taking out his own grenade and getting into a similar position.

"Okay," started Neville. "On my mark. One…two…"

The group tensed, just as Neville shouted, "MARK!"

All of them shot up to their feet at the same time and lobbed the grenades right at the enemy throng that crowded the entrance to the spiral staircase inside the cliff—a carved out, round stone archway that seemed about as old as the rocks that surrounded it. To the disconcertion of their fellow Imperial troops, the ten grenades cleared the enemy's cover, but did not explode. Even stranger was when the enemy troops seemed to look at the grenades in confusion and then brought them up for closer inspection.

It was at this point that everyone seemed to hear someone give a muffled oath and the Brigadier's voice clearly rang out with a single-worded order.

"NOW!"

Faster than most were able to register, one of the men with the Brigadier seemed to shoot up to his feet at that point and, taking exceedingly little time to aim, fired off a couple of rounds in the general direction of the now-uncovered enemy.

His fellow Imperial soldiers at first thought that he was just trying to get a couple of easy kills, but that view changed immediately when they finally heard one of the shots scratch the casing of one of the held grenades. The resulting explosion decimated the immediate vicinity of the grenade, and the fact that the other such explosives had been thrown within the general proximity of the detonated one essentially set off a chain reaction of explosions that made quick work of the dock's present defenders. Cheers rang out from the Imperial lines as they watched the docks lose roughly half of its defenders.

Back at the crates, the tournament shot was still standing, his rifle only slightly bent down, and was wearing a shocked expression on his face.

"I can't _believe_ that actually fucking worked," he mumbled.

Neville was cackling in satisfaction (an odd sight by itself), while the rest of the ten Imperial soldiers seemed to agree with the shooter's blunt comment. Yet, for all their misgivings, they had to admit that the plan had worked. The way into the cliff was open for now, and it seemed that everyone on their side realized this.

With a resounding cheer, the Imperial soldiers shot up to their feet and charged the archway, weapons held aloft and ready to spear anyone who charged right back. This time, Neville was right amongst them as they went through the charred archway, finding the first few dozen meters inside the cliff to be devoid of enemy opposition. Clearly, they had not expected the Imperials to succeed in driving past their defences. Either that, or Voldemort was seriously undermanned.

Finally, they reached the stairs' vestibule. Looking straight up, Neville could see the very top of the stairways in the distance, with the damn things circling up towards the granite ceiling. A little miffed that his men would have to move entirely up this highly vulnerable position, Neville nonetheless motioned for the ascent to begin.

"Two men at a time, double time!" he barked out as he raised his wand and sword. He would have switched out the wand for his pistol, but given the utter lack of Shielders in his detachment, he felt morally obligated to substitute for them in order to save his men from undue deaths. "We've got to get to the top as quick as possible so that the bastards don't pin us down in this death trap!" he yelled over the din of the troops moving past him and up the stairs as directed.

Once he was certain that the flow of troops into the cliff was steady, Neville began his own trek up the spiralling staircase, quickly and easily overtaking most of the men on his way up. All the while, he kept up his encouragements and prompts.

"Keep moving, lads!" he would call as he passed by his moving troops. "Victory is waiting for us at the very top!"

Past another group, he suddenly grabbed the back of a stumbling soldier's shirt and pulled him upright once again. "Eyes up front, my brothers! Let your only worry be the enemy! Do not allow anything else to take you out of the battle!"

Finally, when he reached the very front of the moving column, Neville brought up the battle cry of the defunct Third Legion.

"Onward, lads! No sacrifice!" he began.

The men seemed to understand exactly what he was aiming for, as the answering call was unanimous and deafening in intensity.

"_NO VICTORY!_"

While the original motto had been designated in Latin, Neville liked it best when his men said it in English. For some reason, he felt like it allowed him to connect with the message better if it was in his mother tongue rather than in another language. Thankfully, his men seemed to agree, as they renewed their efforts to escalate the staircase as quickly as possible.

Of course, the very idea that they would reach the top unchallenged was pure fantasy. Just the fact that they had managed to get passed the half-way point unchallenged had been nothing short of a miracle. Thus, when the enemy finally seemed to react and reached the column at about 60 percent up the staircase, the Imperial soldiers were waiting.

Focusing as much as possible to keep up with the constant spell fire, Neville conjured more shields in the opening volley than he could ever recall previous to that point in his life. They weren't like the Death Eaters; these soldiers of Voldemort's were packing an alarming punch, and their accuracy, while not perfect, was worrisome. If they had fought the pre-coup Imperial Army, Neville had a sinking feeling that even with the rotating fire techniques and all the training in the world, the Imperial forces would have lost handily.

Already, a dozen of his men had fallen from well aimed spell fire, of which about half of them were suffering from a lethal injury or were outright dead; the other half didn't look that well off either.

Neville quickly shot up a magical shield that barely formed in time to deflect a slashing curse that would have decapitated one of his men further down the staircase. Unfortunately, it was for naught, as a Killing Curse soon after crashed into the man, causing him to fall limply over the granite railing and down the middle towards the ground below, dead way before he crashed into the tiled floor.

"Shit!" hissed Neville as he watched the aforementioned soldier die, followed by two more who also fell to Killing Curses. "Shit, shit, _shit!_" His eyes were shooting between the enemy and his own men, who had stopped their ascent in favour of taking cover behind the granite railing to protect themselves from the accurate spell fire.

"Sir, we are getting _killed_ out here!" shouted one of the lieutenants at Neville from his crouching position behind the solid, granite railing. "We have _got_ to keep moving!"

Neville shot the man a look that plainly said, "No, _really?_" but had to admit that the guy had a point. Pinned down as they were in the spiral staircase, it was only a matter of time before either the granite railing was chipped away to nothingness or the enemy began shooting down at the coverless soldiers running up the stairs. As it stood, they were lucky that the vanguard was keeping their attention solely focused on the front lines.

Neville felt someone practically throw themselves next to him, and turned to see one of the men he'd hid with back at the docks. It was the tournament shooter. The man had a wary look as he glanced up and saw the scorch mark in the bedrock where his head had been not even a second ago, but then grinned at Neville.

"Brigadier, sir!" he greeted. "Any crazy ideas to get us out of this fine mess?"

Neville grimaced at the new reputation he seemed to be gaining, but said nothing in favour of thinking of a way out of this mess. He thought back to his basic training, trying to think what the manual said about these sorts of situations.

Then, he had an idea. It wasn't a crazy idea, by any means, but it was quite dangerous. But first, he had to check a few things. Motioning with his hands to the men behind him, he got a nod in return from the lieutenant nearby and got himself ready to spring up to his feet. Then, the signal came.

"_COVERING FIRE!_"

Neville shot up to his feet, wand raised, and cast several shields that saved a good dozen soldiers from getting killed. All the while, he was also scouting out the distance between their position and the staircase portion on the other side of the middle void (about ten meters), and the concentration of enemy troops on the other side (very dense). Once he got what he was looking for, he motioned with his hands once again, and quickly dropped back down, his men following a fraction of a second later.

Once again, the lieutenant and tournament shooter crept up to him and looked at him expectantly. "Well?" asked the lieutenant.

Neville nodded. "Pass the word that I need a _Bombarda_ grenade," he told the man. Two pair of eyebrows rose high at the order. _Bombarda_ grenades were usually handled by demolition squads; they made the _Reductor_ grenades look like a firecracker by comparison.

"Are we even at a safe distance from the blast radius?" asked the tournament shooter sceptically.

Neville nodded. "If we toss it into the staircase proper and not the against the railing, the granite should be enough to dampen the impact blast a bit, and our own railing will protect us from the remaining force," he theorized. The truth was, he had no idea. Most of the time, _Bombarda_ grenades were used to carve a way _into_ a facility, like Sulu had done in Salt Lake City. This was different; here, he was trying to clear a staircase.

"Why not use a couple of _Reductor_ grenades?" asked the lieutenant.

Neville shook his head. "The stairs will likely make them bounce out of the staircase with their rounded design," he reminded them. "The _Bombarda_ grenades are better suited because of the fact that they _stick_ to whatever they hit."

"They might also serve to blow a hole into the stair," mumbled the tournament shooter, who had once seen a _Bombarda_ grenade used to blow a wide hole into a thick, concrete wall.

Neville grimaced. That _was_ a possibility, unfortunately. "True, but it's the safer bet. And if the staircase _does_ collapse, I'll repair it with my magic, right after making sure that the debris doesn't crush the lads below."

"That makes me feel so good about this plan..." muttered the lieutenant sarcastically. Neville glared at the man.

"You got a better idea, lieutenant?" he snapped irritably, stressing the man's rank to remind him that he was currently speaking to a senior officer. "No? Then we're going with this."

The lieutenant gave a curt nod before turning and hurriedly scurrying back down the stairs to find the requested heavy duty grenades, leaving Neville with the tournament shooter, who was looking at his superior officer somewhat warily.

"He has a point, sir," observed the man a few seconds after the lieutenant had left.

Neville grunted. "I know," he admitted. "But it's the best we got. And frankly," he continued, "if we don't get moving soon, Sulu's offensive is going to stagnate as well, and then we're all fucked."

Neville's companion said nothing at the bleak commentary, but the brown-haired commander could see the acknowledgement in the man's eyes. They both knew that, whatever their misgivings, this was the only feasible way for them to advance.

Neville paused in his thoughts.

Was it the only way left?

Hadn't he conceived of a spell that could work in this sort of situation to their advantage? Sure, it wasn't tested, but...

Apparently, his line of thinking showed up clearly on his face, as the tournament shooter looked at him expectantly and curiously.

"Something come up, sir?" he asked knowingly.

Neville grunted again. "Not sure. Maybe," he admitted.

"Care to share?"

Neville debated doing so for a few seconds before relenting. "I might have another way to clear the way."

The soldier said nothing, instead opting to raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

"You've heard of the Duke's fighting prowess, right?" asked Neville. The ironic snort from the soldier told him that he had. "Right. Well, part of his skill is based on a personal speed-increasing spell. It's actually quite easy to learn, but he Harry has the advantage that he's also naturally strong and fast—so much so that the spell just increases his skills way beyond human ability."

"Yeah, so?"

Neville took a deep breath. "Well, I wanted to try and even the playing field, so to speak, so I tried to make a spell that could impose the same effects on me," he explained. "But it's never been tested."

The soldier raised an eyebrow in pleasant surprise. "You made a spell?" he asked, just to be sure.

Neville shrugged. "I had Bill Weasley help me; he seemed eager to get another project, to be honest," he admitted. "But regardless, I think this might actually be a viable alternative to our current problem."

Scepticism was his reply. "How do you know it'll work, if it's never been tested? In fact, just how much could go wrong?" asked the shooter.

Neville gave a noncommittal shrug. "A lot," he stated bluntly. "Using magic to augment your physical abilities is one thing—to get them to superhuman levels is potentially deadly. One miscalculation and my heart could explode from over-stimulation."

The shooter grimaced. That didn't sound pretty. "I vote we call that plan D, sir, if that's all right with you," he suggested.

Neville nodded in agreement, just in time for the lieutenant to make his way back to him, a few other officers in tow.

"Gentlemen," greeted Neville with a nod, only slightly flinching when a red-tinged curse flew overhead and slammed into the granite without any real visible effect.

The other seemed to have followed in his flinch, as they were all looking upwards warily before looking back at their commanding officer.

"Sir," started one of the officers that the lieutenant had brought with him, a Major by the looks of his uniform tags. "Lieutenant Tomlinson tells us you intend to use Bombarda grenades on the enemy. Is this true?" he inquired politely.

Neville nodded solemnly. "I have thought long and hard on this, gentlemen; it is the only way to get the column back on the move."

Predictably, scepticism prevailed amongst his officers. He couldn't blame them—if he was on the other end of this argument, he would have been sceptical too.

"Would the granite even sustain such a blast?" asked one of the other officers, a Captain. "What's to say it won't just collapse on the men?"

Neville brought up his wand and showed it to them, absently twirling it amongst his fingers as he explained his reasoning. "If the granite seems to be in a state where collapse is imminent, I will personally place a repairing spell on the structure," he told them. "Believe me, gentlemen, I do not cherish the idea of putting my men through such risk."

The officers seemed unconvinced, but in the end, it was Neville's call. Whether or not it was the right one, they had to see it through. Silently, Lieutenant Tomlinson brought out the Bombarda grenades he had packed into his kit after finding them and passed them to Neville, while the rest of the officer corps left to return to their men to prepare for the impending charge.

Left by themselves once again, Neville, the tournament shooter, and Lieutenant Tomlinson all crowded around the debated grenade. It was a rectangular object of the brownish colour usually seen in paper bags. One side, however, was covered by a paper-like material of yellow colour, with one edge slightly peeled off. It was this that Neville grasped, but withheld from immediately taking it off. Doing so would have activated the heavy-duty grenade's countdown.

Instead, Neville looked at his two subordinates, and then gazed past them towards the crouching soldiers that lined up against the granite railing—seeing for the first time that their eyes were all fully aimed at him. Many of them seemed concerned, but there was also a sense of grim acceptance of what was to come.

Neville took a deep breath, his fingers clamping down on the peel tightly. "Here goes nothing," he mumbled, nodding at his two subordinates. The two quickly turned away and took cover, while Neville violently pulled off the safety peel and, barely giving himself time to process what he had just activated, shot to his feet, grenade in hand.

Predictably, the enemy started firing at him within milliseconds of him getting up. Whether it was his good fortune or just bad aim, none of the spells seemed to hit him for the few seconds he was up on his feet. Taking advantage of this seeming divine protection, Neville reared up his arm and, immediately finding his desired target, threw the grenade like a pro quarterback before quickly ducking once more and curling up into a protective ball.

The grenade flew in the air along Neville's desired trajectory and missed the enemy soldiers completely, sailing right by one's head as it then curved down and hit the wall just under the line of sight of the top of the granite railing.

Neville had just enough time to hear Lieutenant Tomlinson whimper once before the grenade detonated.

* * *

_Gates of Hogwarts Grounds_

The battle at the front gates of Hogwarts had descended into a stalemate after hours of battling. The Imperial forces, initially holding the advantage of momentum, had driven the defenders from the front of the gate back into the grounds, but in failing to keep moving at this speed, they allowed enough time for the enemy to retreat through the gates and close the massive doors to the enemy, allowing the protective enchantments on the gates to slam down and turn the Imperial attack ineffective.

This wasn't to say that the Imperials were in a mood to give up, though. Tenaciously, the Imperials launched wave after wave of attacks on the gates, using their overwhelming numbers and vast quantities of siege equipment to try and take the gates the old fashioned way. Unfortunately, these attempts, too, failed. The end result was about two thousand Imperial soldiers dead, many more wounded, and the gates still in enemy hands.

At the back of the offensive, yet within eyesight of the offensive, John Sulu was getting increasingly frustrated and angered at the lack of progress in the siege. The enemy, it seemed, was far more capable than he had given them credit for. As such, part of that anger was directed at himself for not taking Harry's advice to proceed with caution. He had thought that, with the Death Eaters eliminated, the only people who would feasibly work for Voldemort were weaklings that had not managed to stand out under the Death Eater regime. Instead, he found that his enemy was not just magically strong, but also quite the capable soldiers. It reminded him of the Terracotta soldiers, quite frankly, and yet he knew those to have been wiped off the face of the planet.

At the moment, his exhausted troops were taking cover in the assault trenches they had managed to dig up during one of the failed assaults. The network of trenches webbed out back towards their camp, where the Imperial artillery kept firing shells at the magical barriers that protected the gate.

In the middle of the trench network, along with most of his staff, Sulu was attempting to coordinate another offensive, alternating between pointing things out on a map, giving orders, and looking at the enemy positions and his own via field binoculars. He was about to give another spate of orders when he suddenly felt the earth shake beneath him, and struggled to keep himself standing. Yet, as soon as it had begun, it was over, leaving Sulu and the rest of the main Imperial offensive very confused.

"_What was that?" demanded Sulu as he ducked when he noticed a stray spell go right for him. The spell hit the ground before the trench and only served to kick up a little earth._

None of his staff seemed to know, but one of them pointed out a rising pillar of smoke from behind the gates.

"_How far is that?" asked Sulu as he finally noticed the column of smoke. He narrowed his eyes in contemplation. 'That's not enough to the right for it to be the ships in the lake...' he realised._

One of his field staff seemed to be an ace at mental calculations, because he was soon rewarded with a distance estimate. "Looks to be on the castle cliff, sir," guessed the aide.

Sulu felt like cursing at the guess. If that was true, then that smoke was either the work of Neville, or the enemy fighting the Brigadier. Either way, he had to find out what had happened to his support column. With a flick of his hand, one of the wizards on his staff brought out his wand and tapped it to the Imperial commander's temple, murmuring under his breath the spell. Almost immediately, Sulu felt the spell start to work, and he quickly broadcasted out his message to all the magical signatures he could find, not worrying about the enemy tapping into the connection; even if they knew he was communicating with Neville, once the Brigadier activated the two-way connection, it would be impossible to tap into.

"This is General Sulu calling Brigadier Longbottom," he broadcasted. "Please advise, what is your status and position?"

Sulu then stopped and waited for an answer. He stayed that way for about five minutes before repeating his request, and was again rewarded with five minutes of silence. Sulu began to sweat now, becoming increasingly worried about the flanking column's status. He was about to relay orders for the Navy to drop a few Marine squads to ascertain the status of Neville's column when he felt a two-way connection open.

"_This is Brigadier Longbottom reporting in to General Sulu," he heard in his mind. "We are a-okay. Repeat, a-okay. Over."_

* * *

"...repeat, a-okay. Over," repeated Neville, before letting loose a hacking cough. Dust was everywhere.

_The Bombarda grenade had done its work masterfully, but Neville had forgotten one thing: it was not typically used in closed environments, and even then, never in window-less areas. The closed conditions of the staircase room had essentially fed into the explosion and caused the devastation to multiply several times over. It was only the fact that he had, at the last second, realised his mistake that had saved them._

_Pouring everything he had into it, he conjured up a magical shield that blanketed the entire area where he and his men were and so prevented the explosion from annihilating them as well. The problem was, with the way down sealed off, the explosion multiplied several times over again, this time in an upwards direction. The result was that the staircase was essentially disintegrated for a good forty meters up._

"_You know, I hate to say I told you so..." Neville heard behind him. The brunette commander groaned. He was so not in the mood for this._

"_Not now, Tomlinson," he growled, though his heart just wasn't in it—he was way too exhausted as it was. Keeping that explosion at bay had basically sapped any strength he had left after the Lake crossing. "Merlin's balls I feel tired," he complained to no one in particular._

Someone coughed behind him, but Neville felt it too tiring to move his head around to have a look. "Well, sir, it's not like we'll be able to move along anyway," commented the person, who Neville recognised as the tournament shooter.

Looking up, Neville saw that the man was right. The staircase up to about forty meters above them were simply gone. The granite had been rendered into dust from the magnitude of the explosion, and there was simply no way to keep moving. On the flip side, the enemy would no longer be able to rain down spells onto the column, seeing as how the entrance seemed to have caved in from the blast. Still, that left the problem of getting the column into position.

Placing his wand on his left temple, Neville quietly activated the communication spell and sought out Sulu. Not finding him, he then sought out the nearest magical signature, and locked onto it.

"This is Brigadier Longbottom, please respond," he broadcasted.

"_Brigadier Longbottom, this is Major Davis. What's the matter, sir?"_

Neville sighed. "Unfortunately, it seems that in our haste to clear the enemy from the stairwell at the docks, the last forty or so meters in stairs have been evaporated. We cannot, I repeat, cannot continue our advance for now."

Silence greeted Neville for a while, until the brown-haired man started to feel uneasy. What would Sulu say?

"_Brigadier Longbottom, General Sulu has advised that you stand your men down for today. No progress has been made on the front gates either. We must regroup and try again tomorrow," replied Davis at last. "Admiral Staples and our own artillery will continue harassing the enemy until our next offensive. Until then, try to find an alternate way up to the castle and we will attempt to get the gates open. Over and out."_

With that, the connection broke, and Neville was left to his men. Neville was silent for a few seconds, dropping his wand arm to rest on his legs. He then sighed and looked tiredly at Tomlinson.

"Pass the word: we're standing down for today. The attack will resume tomorrow," he relayed the general orders. He then gave another sigh. "The plan failed."

* * *

Elsewhere, two figures were hunched over a strange chessboard. It was strange in that the board itself was not imprinted with the usual dual-coloured squares that showed where the pieces would be placed. Instead, it looked like a map of a particular area.

On the board itself were several figures. Two of them were of miniature versions of Imperial soldiers. Three more of them looked like typical robed wizards. Two more were dragons, and the last piece was a ship.

Currently, one of the wizard pieces was knocked down onto its side, while the Imperial soldier figure next to it remained standing. Unfortunately, the wizard's player had placed down a small block between them, which served to annoy the figure's opponent. Elsewhere on the board, the wizard figure that the other Imperial soldier piece had been attacking was still standing, as was the Imperial soldier; yet, it was undeniable that the offensive had been a failure.

"I believe this is my win," said the first figure, his voice silky and smooth.

The other figure gave him a cold, if silent glare. "Dumb luck."

A soft, hiss-like chuckle emanated from the man's opponent. "Perhaps so, but it is my win nonetheless."

His opponent said nothing, but then gave a smirk as he brought out a curious little piece and placed it on the edge of the board. "Maybe, but this battle's just begun."

It was an Airship.

* * *

_AN: Like I said before; updates will be slow in coming, since I have to essentially rewrite all of the battle and thereafter. Please be patient, and as always, reviews and feedback are highly appreciated._

_Oh, also, kudos to whoever can guess the few references to popular culture I've added in this chapter._


	38. Chapter XXXI: Toys of War

_Two Days Earlier..._

Bill Weasley was, according to his contemporaries, a lab rat.

He hadn't always been considered as such; heck, he could still remember the days when he was considered one of the coolest kids in Hogwarts. Back then, he'd been Head Boy, top of his class, and all around popular with damn near everyone short of Slytherins. He'd had several girlfriends throughout his tenure there, none of them really serious, and he knew enough people who knew other people that when it came time for him to find a job, word had already spread about his considerable skills with charms, ancient runes, arithmancy, and complicated spell work.

These days, on the other hand, his name was connected with laboratories, secret government research, and zealous dedication to his work. His mind, continuously bombarded with new ideas that he just couldn't let go without at least trying to research, was always on the go; it practically never stopped, except when sleeping. Had he been on speaking terms with his parents, Bill had no doubt that his mother would have fussed over him, trying to get him to find a less stressful job.

Of course, no one ever really understood that to Bill, his job wasn't stressful; it was _wonderful_.

Back in Hogwarts, he used to dream of creating new spells, of pushing the boundaries of magic further than had ever been known. That was why he took the Gringotts job—everyone else wanted him to settle for mundane warding, or magical object creation. Gringotts, however, promised to have him sent to one of the cradles of magical civilization—Egypt. If that wasn't good enough, they also offered him the job of Curse Breaker, meaning he would be going face to face with ancient magic, thereby giving him the opportunity to further his intellectual drive to know more.

Bill spent much of the following years going through tomb after tomb of ancient pharaohs, relishing the challenges posed in the security wards that were left to protect the treasures within their confines for thousands of years. Each time, they grew more and more difficult, and with each greater challenge, Bill grew more and more excited.

But there was a problem.

While the difficulty of the wards grew with the importance of the tombs, the amount of such challenges available were not infinite, and eventually they would run out. Even worse was that while he managed to glean some important magical information from the wards, he could not use them in the modern world, since such wards were considered Dark. This meant he could not even experiment with what he had found out; he couldn't even theorize about it! If he did, he would find himself cooling his heels in some Egyptian prison, or worse—Azkaban, if they deported him.

So when Harry came along and gave Bill the offer to work as a magical theorist for the Empire, and offered him nigh-unlimited resources and zero boundaries (short of inhumane experimentation), Bill had felt like his life had been given meaning to once again.

So now, years from his days at Hogwarts, years after he started working for the Empire, Bill found himself on the verge of another major breakthrough. One that Harry had commissioned him.

"Mister Weasley?"

Bill looked up from his holographic representation of the Hogwarts wards' data to see one of his lab assistants—a luxury that Alexandra Potter had, without pulling any punches, told him to get or he'd be forcefully sent on vacation for overworking himself.

'What was her name again?' he wondered. 'Florence? Flora? Floy?' Bill raised a mental eyebrow. 'No, definitely not Floy.'

"Mister Weasley?" repeated the very pretty young woman. Not that Bill was paying that much attention, mind you. Half of his mind was still fixated upon the data he had been staring at for the past four hours.

"Err...yes, Miss...?" he decided not to guess. It would end up being humiliating if he got it wrong—both for her and for him. Besides, he had a reputation for being less than attentive to people, ever since he got sprung out of the Death Eater concentration camp in Nova Scotia.

His assistant gave a long-suffering sigh, but smiled nonetheless. "Delacour, Mister Weasley. Fleur Delacour," she reintroduced herself.

"_Right_," he said, sounding exasperated with himself. He'd gotten close with Flora. "I knew that."

Fleur gave her boss an indulgent smile. "Of course you did, Mister Weasley."

Bill waved off his own imaginary cobwebs before giving his assistant his full attention. "What did you want to speak to me about?"

Fleur nodded and handed over the datapad she had been digitally writing on while he worked, always taking notes. Instead of the notes, however, was the image of a shipment receipt. "The shipment from your brothers' weapons factory in Alberta just arrived. Five thousand units, as ordered," she explained as she pointed out the relevant sections in the manifest.

Bill's eyes lit up like an excited child's. He had been waiting for this shipment impatiently ever since Harry first explained to him what he wanted done. It was yet another major breakthrough, but due to its costly manufacture, they had been limited to a paltry 5,000 units instead of the 50,000 they had wanted; enough to equip an entire Legion.

"Anything from the Roberts factory?" Bill asked eagerly.

Fleur had to visibly keep herself from smiling at how adorable Bill looked whenever he was excited. It really was like a kid on Christmas morning. "Unfortunately no, Mister Weasley. Lady Roberts'" as Alexandra Potter-Roberts was also known, "says that her brother in law reported difficulties in getting the product together, since it was their first time manufacturing this particular item. He says the shipment should arrive tomorrow, first thing in the morning," she reported dutifully.

Bill pouted for a second before brushing that aside and grinning. "I see. Well, nothing for it. Let's go check out Harry's new toys, eh?" Not for the first time, Fleur goggled at the familiarity with which Bill alluded to the Duke of Halifax. She, of course, knew of the history between the two men, but even then, the Duke usually commanded such reverent respect that hearing anyone refer to him by his first name was...well...surprising.

Quietly, as was expected of her, Fleur followed her redheaded boss towards the cargo drop area in the massive hangar that Bill used as his lab. It was one of the early Airship hangars that had been used to build the _Retaliation_-class Airships prior to the use of the specialized Imperial Shipyards. Here, he had ample space to accommodate to his whims; if a particular experiment needed private space, isolated from the rest of the lab, he would conjure up walls and adequately segregate the needed space. When the experiment finished, he would then take them down. It was simpler that way.

The only exception was the cargo drop area, which was permanently sealed off from the rest of the lab, in order to prevent the delivery teams from getting a view of the very sensitive and very top secret projects he was working on at all times. It was a wonder by itself that he personally managed to oversee each and every one of them, with only a single assistant to help him, but he somehow did it, and with flying colours.

Predictably, there was a series of trucks waiting for him in the cargo drop area, all of which seemed absolutely packed with crates about two heads taller Bill and a fair deal wider. As Bill practically skipped his way to the nearest crate, Fleur made her way to the delivery men, holding a long-suffering look on her beautiful face as she took care of the paperwork while her superior acted like a child on Christmas morning.

Once the crates were all unloaded, Bill wasted no time in banishing the contents of the crates to the alloted section of his hangar were all five thousand units would be contained for inspection. The delivery men, glad to have the empty crates back to cut down on the cost of getting new ones, quickly loaded them back up in their trucks and then rode off after receiving a signed payment instruction from Fleur.

Together, the lab rat duo made their way to the sectioned off area where the ordered units were now grimaced as she realized that she could now be considered a lab rat as well. Like Bill, she hadn't always been known as such. Back in France, at Beauxbatons, her stunning looks and Veela charm (a gift from her maternal line), coupled with her intelligence had ensured that whatever job she wanted could have been hers for the taking. Instead, once the wars in Europe had broken out, sweeping even into France, she found herself at the epicentre of a massive conflict that made her a prominent target for the Dark faction in her own country's civil war due to her Veela heritage.

For the first two years, she and her family had stayed in France, but after the Dark faction had laid siege and captured Beauxbatons, resulting in the death of Headmistress Olympe Maxime, the Delacour family had fled the country to Spain, where the central government had been having some success with their own civil war. After a year there, however, they had been forced to flee again after a particularly nasty offensive by the Dark faction there managed to break the government's front lines. That was when they applied for refugee status and migrated to Harrisburg.

Five years of war, and Fleur had been forced to watch her carefully ordered world descend into chaos. Perhaps that had been the reason she had chosen this career—it was isolated from the world, in a way, even though she knew the inventions and discoveries here would deeply affect the world outside. Still, it gave her a sense of disconnection from the troubles of the war; it prevented her from seeing the atrocities and tolls of the conflict, and in that sense, it made her feel safe in these uncertain times.

Though if Fleur was completely honest with herself, she couldn't deny that two other factors had a hand in her decision to take this job. One was intellectual curiosity—her grades at Beauxbatons hadn't been something to sneeze at, and her participation in the Tri-Wizard Cup as her school's representative served enough as proof of her skill. She was curious about the work that went on behind the scenes of the Empire's mighty war machine. No one spoke about the research that went on under Imperial funding—it was taboo, for some reason or another. Yet, as she found out, there were plenty of opportunities to enter the research business. It was just that once you were in, it was forbidden to ever speak about what went on behind the Research and Development doors. It was a crime, in fact.

The other reason, of course, stood before her in the storage room where the 5,000 units they had ordered from Weasley & Weasley. William Weasley, otherwise known as Bill. If Neville Longbottom was considered his right hand man, then Bill Weasley was Harry Potter's left hand—the man who's brilliant mind had helped spearhead more than a dozen advances in technomancy.

Nevermind his good looks, Bill Weasley fascinated her. When she had first applied for this job, she had expected that her natural Veela charm would immediately make him hire her. Instead, not only was he not affected, but he had pointedly paid her looks little to no heed—instead focusing on her practical abilities; what she knew, what she could do, and the like. At first, she had felt insulted by his utter lack of interest in her, but then she had found it fascinating. What kind of man could unwittingly brush aside the effects of her Veela charm? Even homosexual men felt some attraction, even though all her heritage did was cause a chemical reaction, not true attraction.

So she had felt the tables turned on her, and she was the one who tried to ingratiate herself to Bill, instead of the other way around. It had worked, to an extent; he had shown interest in her as she rattled off her intellectual accomplishments. A few interviews more, and she had been hired.

A loud explosion drew the stunning blonde from her reminiscing. Her boss had sent a powerful blasting curse at one of the units, and was seemingly exhilarated by the total absence of any damage to it. She smiled tolerantly before drawing up her datapad and making the appropriate notes.

* * *

_One Day Later..._

Fleur smiled as Bill practically bounced around his lab. The Roberts weapon shipment had arrived as promised, and Bill had been anxious to try the weapons at his private firing range under the lab. On the other hand, Fleur had been tempted to opt out of this particular experiment; the weapons frightened her. They were much bigger than what Bill and Alexandra Potter-Roberts usually designed and worked with, and had a frightening look about them.

However, she had decided to stick by her boss. Who knew what he might do if left alone with those horrid machines of destruction? Besides, the instructions sent in by Imperial Military Headquarters had clearly stated that the whole lot was needed in the British Isles ASAP.

The problem was, Bill loved to try out everything that passed through his lab, even when there was a deadline to it. That was one of the first things Fleur had noticed when she took this job. If no one put their mind to it, Bill would put off sending away his inventions and theories as long as possible while he tried them out and tinkered away. Thus, she had taken it upon herself to act as his alarm clock, of sorts. Whenever a deadline came unbearably close, she would remind him of it and insist that the products be sent away, much to his disappointment. He always understood, though, and never resented her for it; it just broke her heart whenever he looked so forlorn at being parted from his "toys."

"Off to the range, eh?" Bill was telling her more than asking, once again snapping Fleur out of her reverie. She smiled at him in response.

"As you say, Mister Weasley."

Bill shot her a long suffering look. "We've been working together for almost a year, Miss Delacour. Will you not call me Bill, as I've asked?"

Fleur gave him a brilliant smile. "It would be inappropriate, Mister Weasley, especially since you do not yet call me by my own name," she replied. She wondered if perhaps that had sounded flirty, even if she had not meant it. She needn't have worried; judging from Bill's expression, any hints of flirtation had gone right over his head.

Bill, however, was not as dense as he sometimes seemed. He offered a smile in return and nodded. "Fleur, then," he said agreeably, surprising her immensely. "To the range, then, Fleur?" he repeated.

Fleur felt her cheeks stretch immensely as she grinned at him brilliantly for his use of her first name. She had never once thought he would actually take her up on her suggestion—oblivious as he seemed at common social interactions, but he had completely surprised her by showing her he had not yet completely sealed himself off from social conventions.

_'There might be hope for him yet,'_ she thought happily as she followed him to the range.

* * *

Two hours later, Fleur was resting at her desk, her datapad on her desk, almost forgotten. Around her desk were dozens of experiments, all occupying their own desks as well. There was simply no space for her to get a walled off office. Not that Fleur minded; the experiments sometimes helped her gain some inspiration that she would then relay to Bill, who always welcomed fresh suggestions.

Currently, however, she was mulling over the matter of her boss. Fleur was always quite honest with herself, and this was no exception. She fancied Bill Weasley. It was that simple. An incredible part of her feelings for him were, undoubtedly, fuelled by lust. Lab rat though he may be, Bill Weasley had always kept in shape, partially due to pressure from the Duke, rumours said. This was not altogether odd, really. The Duke asked for _all_ his men, retainers and soldiers alike, to stay fit, just in case.

The other, just as large reason was true attraction, she felt. He had a mind that just astounded her. Certainly, his pre-war records had stated that he was a disciplined student, and she had once or twice seen his wandwork and it boggled her mind. She had realised then that his position at Harry Potter's side had not been his connection to him via the Duke's wife, but rather a testament to his skill and intelligence.

In Fleur's personal tastes, that was just goddamn _sexy_. A man who could think up innovative ways of using magic and technology _and_ look good _and_ use magic masterfully? He was a veritable jackpot, he was!

But how to get him?

Ah, there was the perennial question. Some said that Bill Weasley had lost all interests in romantic relations after his stint in a Death Eater concentration camp. Apparently, he had undergone severe torture to his lower areas, and that had eliminated his sex drive altogether. Fleur wasn't sure that was right, though. After seeing how brilliant Bill was, there was no way the Death Eaters would have damaged him in any way other than what was necessary. Torture of that sort would have been counterproductive.

On the other hand, it was more likely that, in order to shut himself off from the torturous memories and emotions from his period there, Bill had essentially shut himself off, emotionally speaking. It would hurt less for him if he did not feel at all. This theory was, to Fleur, eminently more likely.

"Ah, Fleur, _there_ you are!"

Unfortunately, yet again, the object of her affections interrupted her thoughts.

Fleur looked up at her boss with a look of curiosity, absently noticing that his long hair seemed frazzled. In fact, his whole disposition radiated stress and a hint of panic. Almost immediately, she shot to her feet, her datapad in hand.

"Is something wrong? Did an experiment go haywire?" It was a testament to how much this occurred that it was among the first questions she asked.

Thankfully for her nerves, Bill shook his head. "It's worse...or better, depending on how you look at it," corrected Bill, amending himself at the last second. "I've just got off the communicator with Harry. He had a peculiar request to make that I am..." he paused here, silently choosing the most appropriate words, "...uncertain about."

Given the way Bill's hands were twitching and wrangling with each other, she easily translated uncertain for something much worse.

"What is it, sir?" she asked warily, almost dreading the answer. Not much could unsettle Bill Weasley—especially given all that he had gone through, but here they were.

"You know how I have been researching the wards of Hogwarts?" he asked in what seemed to be a non-sequitur for Fleur. The young woman blinked once before nodding.

"Of course. You look at that hologram about four hours each day," she said matter-of-fact. Bill blushed slightly at the deadpan way she relayed his obsessive streak with his projects. "It's for finding a way to negate the effect of the wards on our ships, right?"

"Yes, well...Harry wants me to approach the wards project in a different manner," he informed her, dropping into a seat heavily. "He's not satisfied with just negating the wards, now, although he does ask that we keep on with that."

Fleur blinked. Her logical mind was driving her in a direction she thought quite ludicrous, but she decided to hear her boss out regardless. "What does he want us to do, then?"

Bill took in a deep breath and sighed. "He wishes for us to, and I quote, 'tear down those fucking wards.'"

Fleur blinked once. Then she blinked again. Then she absently noticed that her dainty lips seemed to be parting and her jaw moving was moving downwards.

Bill nodded. "I have worked with that man for about six years now, and now for the second time, he surprises me," he admitted, clasping his hands together in front of his face, his bank hunched over as he thought of how best to address this matter.

"What was the first time?" asked Fleur, curious despite her disbelief at the Duke's request.

Bill grinned. "When he offered me to work on Project Archangel."

Fleur wasn't surprised, for once. Bill Weasley's hand in the Archangel Project had never really been a secret, and it was common sense that it was for this reason that he had been kidnapped by the Death Eaters rather than outright murdered like so many others.

"So you'll be leaving for the Isles, then?" she asked, getting back on track. "Shall I call for someone to pack your things?"

Bill shook his head, before levelling a piercing stare at her. She silently took it for a few seconds before she began squirming in discomfort. "Mister Weasley..."

Bill was snapped out of his trance. "Hmm? Oh, sorry," he apologised quickly. "No, I don't need someone to get my things packed, Fleur, thank you very much."

Fleur nodded somewhat demurely, finding herself oddly shy around this serious facet of her boss' personality. She was excusing herself to go back to work when she felt his hand on her arm, tugging at her lab coat in restraint. She turned to look at him curiously. "Mister Weasley?"

Bill was still staring at her, those piercing blue eyes of his gazing up at her calculatingly. Finally, after a few seconds of a stare-off, Bill elucidated his thoughts to her.

"I want you to come with me."

Fleur was taken aback, to say the least. Yet, somewhere deep within her, a spark of hope flared up. "What?"

"Harry wants me on site to bring down the wards, and while I could feasibly do so given enough time, having you there would help me immensely with my work," he told her earnestly. He completely missed the crushed look in her eyes.

"Oh, of course. The assignment..." she said, feeling foolish for having thought that he might want her around for something else than work. "I...don't know, Mister Weasley. Who would take care of the lab?"

Bill waved the concern away. "I'll call in a favour from Alexandra. She'll be happy to duck in her head every other day or so."

Fleur was still unsure about this. It was highly irregular, and quite frankly, she did not want to come within miles of another battlefield. Yet, at the same time, she knew Bill was counting on her. Gods, what a dilemma!

In the end, though, logic won over emotion.

Fleur sighed and nodded once, sounding only slightly defeated. "Very well, Mister Weasley. I shall accompany you to the Isles."

Bill grinned. "Excellent! But before that, there's one more thing we have to do..." he said, his tone growing more mysterious at the end.

Fleur rose a fine, delicate eyebrow. "Oh?"

* * *

_That Evening..._

The streets of Harrisburg were quickly losing their life as its inhabitants began to withdraw into their houses for the night. There were, of course, always the few that went out for a night of fun, even on a weekday, but for the most part, the city streets became deserted during the night. Only drunks, late hour workers, and the Imperial Provosts—the capital's police force—tended to roam the streets after a particular hour.

Perhaps this was why the inhabitants indoors rose from their dinner tables and crowded around their windows at the strange sight outside.

Imperial Provosts were not a strange sight, but fifty of them in the same place were. And all of them were headed towards the magical sectors of the city. That told the other peoples of the city a lot already. Magical citizens, barring non-human species, were still looked at with much suspicion throughout the capital and the rest of the Empire. How could they not? They had been the perpetrators of one of the most global and damaging wars in history! Thus, whenever the Provosts had to capture a magical criminal, they usually went into the sector in force, just in case any other magic user got involved.

This time, the blue-uniformed Provosts veritably swarmed the Magical sector, most of them marching at a trot alongside the bursting trucks full of more Provosts. All of them were armed with the same rifles as the Imperial Army, and all of them had grim looks on their faces. They knew that while most of the human magical population understood their current situation, there were still a lot that saw no reason for the discrimination and distrust to continue, given the Death Eaters' defeat. Many of these tended to get vocal and physical in their discontent, and so the Provosts were always armed in such a way to dissuade such demonstrations. They had orders, and would carry them out to the best of their ability.

At their head was the Provost Marshal himself—an absolute rarity. The Provost Marshal, most assumed, was a bureaucrat that rarely, if ever left his office; only doing so if he had to go to Parliament to explain himself or to fight for the Provosts' budget. The truth was, the Provost Marshal was a mean old bugger who had fought in the First Legion once; back during the pre-war days. He was an India veteran and had been severely wounded in his right arm. So much so that he had been forced to retire from the Army. Now, after the coup, and with a new Imperial capital in place, Harry had plucked him out from amongst the refugees and given him command of the Imperial Provosts via a proxy in Parliament.

More surprising was the redheaded man at his side, a stunning blonde by his own. The scarred Provost Marshal, a man feared within his organisation, was acting deferentially towards the man beside him, and politely ignored the woman. The two conferred for a moment before the redheaded man pulled out a wax sealed envelope and handed it over to the Provost Marshal, who promptly broke the seal and retrieved the letter within. He sped read it once before giving the redheaded man a nod and then raising his hand and then flicking it forward.

Amongst the ready Provosts, one of them pulled out a whistle and blew hard, giving the blue-coated men the signal to carry out their orders. In strictly designated groups of ten, the policemen of the Empire dispersed towards their designated targets.

Soon enough, the groups of ten reached the doors of several pre-chosen houses and, within seconds of each other, the policemen knocked loudly three times before all shouting the same thing.

"In the name of Her Majesty and Parliament, open up! Imperial Provosts!"

* * *

_The Day of the Battle..._

"So we've only got about twenty four hours to find a way to take down the most powerful and ancient system of wards still active in the world?"

"Yep."

Fleur looked at Bill askance. Her boss was either way too calm about this, or crushing his own panic underneath layers of outward serenity. Whichever it was, he had not stopped staring at the holographic display of the wards and their respective information since they had boarded the shuttle that was to take them to the British Isles, the _HMAS Argent Spear_.

Both of them paid no heed when the door to their working space, which also doubled as their room (since they had _very_ important guests in the others, the two had decided to bunk together), slid open with a hiss.

"It's actually forty eight hours," corrected the person at the door, making them look up from their work. Sirius Black.

"Hello Sirius," greeted Bill, while Fleur stuttered out an incredibly formal and polite greeting.

Sirius grinned at Fleur's nervous greeting. "Hey Bill," he returned the greeting, before giving Fleur a charming kiss on the back of her hand. "And hello to _you_, _mademoiselle_," he spoke in flawless French, to which he added a flirtatious wink that made Fleur blush to her roots.

Bill sighed in annoyance. "Sirius, do try to keep your hands off my lab assistant. She is quite invaluable to me, you know," he said with perhaps more force than he had meant to. Sirius' grin was not deterred.

"I'll bet she is," he mumbled to himself, though Fleur heard him and blushed again, trying to stutter out that it was not like he thought it was.

"Anyhow, what's this about forty eight hours instead of twenty four?" asked Bill, trying to get the discussion back on track. "Has something happened?"

Sirius nodded, his face becoming grim as he turned to business. "Harry's initial overtures failed. The flanking attack attempted to blast their way past resistance in the stairway from the docks using a _Bombarda_ grenade."

Bill goggled. "In such tight environment? How bad was the casualty count?" he asked, horrified.

Sirius allowed a smile. "Zero." He laughed at Bill's astounded look. "I know. Word has it that ol' Neville realised how big a fuckup he'd let loose and conjured a shield that single-handedly prevented the collapse of the stairs on his men."

Bill looked impressed, while Fleur was a little outraged by Sirius' colourful language.

"Neville's matured quite a bit, then," praised Bill genuinely. Sirius nodded in agreement.

"He sure has, given all the crap he's had to deal with recently. You know Susan hasn't spoken to him since the Harrisburg incident?"

"Truly? A shame. Does she not understand what was at stake?"

Sirius shook his head. "Word has it that Neville explained, but she still blew up at him," he said, before shrugging. "I guess I can see her point. He was gone for so long, without a word to her, and then shows up like a bloodied hero? Plan or not, if I had a bird who did that to me, I'd leave her."

Bill shrugged. "I guess that's where we differ, Sirius," he stated. "I've always found that reason should be employed in such situations. We cannot justly justify the termination of such social ties with one another on an emotional basis. There are greater things than us to consider."

Sirius barked out a laugh. "I see why you're Harry's left hand!" he chortled. "Cold as ice, you are! A perfect counter to Neville's more impassioned way of doing things."

Bill frowned. "People don't actually say that about me, do they?" he asked doubtfully. Sirius laughed.

"Are you kidding me?" he asked as he paused his laughter to take a few breaths. "Bill, you're practically a _god_ to bookworms! When's the last time you've shagged a woman, for goodness' sake?"

Fleur, who had been silent all this time, flushed red in embarrassed indignation now. "Mister Black!" she shouted reproachfully in indignation. "Really!"

Sirius looked over at Fleur, remembering that she'd been present all this time. He grinned bashfully at her and scratched his nose. "Sorry, luv. Just making a point."

Bill, however, had not taken notice to Fleur's protest. Instead, he was contemplative. "I see. Perhaps I _have_ disconnected myself from society a bit too much," he agreed. "Still, it is not as if my situation is like yours, Sirius; I do not have women throwing themselves at me all the time."

Fleur nearly snapped her neck clean off, given the speed with which she turned her head to look at Bill incredulously. That was all it took for Sirius to gain a mischievous gleam in his eyes, though he remained silent on that matter.

"Maybe," he conceded. "But to other matters. I know Harry wanted me to take charge and supervise the transfer of you lot and our guests," he made air quotation marks at the word guest. "to the camp outside Hogwarts' wards, but aren't you supposed to give them a brief pre-briefing?"

Bill grimaced. "I doubt they would enjoy my presence, given last night's events."

Sirius grinned. "Well, you were under perfectly legitimate orders. Remember, Parliament and Her Majesty herself ratified Harry's orders."

"Doesn't make it any more pleasant. Being forced out of your homes at gun point rarely strike an amiable chord with people," observed Fleur, intervening on Bill's behalf. "Even when some of said people are your family."

Sirius shrugged. "Wait a bit, do it now—I don't rightly care, to be honest. Harry only asked me to make sure you all got to your destinations safe and sound. Once that's done, I'm back in James' employ. I'm just saying, giving them a moment to digest this whole business before thrusting them into the crux of the matter would perhaps be best for any future plans of reconciliation."

With that, Sirius bade the two farewell and left the room, leaving the two researchers to their thoughts and each other.

* * *

_AN: As an answer to the burning question I'll likely be getting a lot of: No, Sirius is not being OOC within the parameters of this story. _

_I know he's been previously characterized as something of a canon Remus--minus the whole angst thing--but this is merely because Sirius, at the time, was an active duty soldier. His part is now done, so he's able to relax a bit.  
_


	39. Chapter XXXII: Planning a Comeback

The mood in the Imperial camp outside the Hogwarts gates was surly, at best; discouraged, at worst. They had spent the entire night bombing the gates without so much as a crack in the defensive shields of the ancient entryway into the grounds of Hogwarts. Clearly, Riddle had improved them substantially since the last time the Imperial forces had been here. However, this couldn't account for the apparent ineffectiveness of their artillery against the shields. Even if their conventional siege cannons had no effect, the Basilisk cannons on the _Basilisk_ warships had also failed to make a dent in the shields. All they knew was that the only way through them was to march the troops through the permeable shields and take the gates the old fashioned way, which they had tried. Tried, and failed.

"I just don't understand!" growled Sulu as he slammed his fist onto the table where the map of Hogwarts lay. "McDonald laid siege to this castle twice, didn't he? Weren't there notes of the wards being this difficult to take down?"

One of the minor officers in the tent quickly went through the available documentation that the Imperial forces had brought regarding Hogwarts. In the folder were nearly all the details that both previous military commanders and Imperial Intelligence had managed to scrounge regarding the famed ancient citadel. The aide, a Captain, shook his head regretfully.

"According to the battle reports we managed to acquire from McDonald's faction after his assassination, his forces were able to make it past the gates with relative ease, but found himself mostly hampered by the defenses at the second gate and on the grounds between. There is no mention of strong magical shields at the main gates," reported the Captain, much to Sulu's frustration.

Sulu glared at the gaggle of generals and commanders in his tent reproachfully. "How is it, gentlemen, that we are able to defeat the Death Eaters, successfully lay siege to a dozen, more heavily defended locations around the globe, and bring the Dark-influenced Americans to their _knees_, but we are not able to conquer a _single_, blasted _gate_?" he was practically hissing by the end of his reproach, his dark eyes bulging in frustrated anger.

His officer corps had their collective heads bowed in shame as they realized how disappointed Sulu was with them. Not that he was in the wrong, either. The Imperial Army had never been so thoroughly humiliated as with this first day of combat. Not a single gain had been achieved. Even Longbottom's conquest of the Hogwarts docks was nullified by the fact that there was no way for his column to reach the top anymore. In the end, they had been forced to reveal their hidden hand—the _Basilisk_ warships hidden underwater—and had achieved nothing in the process.

Sulu slumped into his chair heavily, one hand rubbing the bridge of his nose while he tried to sort out his thoughts and recollect his calm. "Where are we on the enemy bodies?" he asked tiredly. "Any progress?"

A young woman in a blood-stained apron and green overalls took a step forward at the question, this being her field of responsibility. "We've established with finality that the enemy is using golems, sir," reported the young woman.

Sulu didn't even bother to look up—he had already guessed as much from Harry's preliminary information. Instead, he waved his hand for her to continue.

The commander's silence disturbed the young woman slightly, but she continued nonetheless. "We ran a comparative diagnostic vis-a-vis the results of a magical autopsy of a Terracotta soldier and, though there were basic similarities, we are now certain that the golems are _not_, in fact, remnants of the Death Eater army."

Sulu let out a sigh of relief he didn't know he was holding in. The Terracotta soldiers had been a veritable nightmare for the Imperial Army. Since they could take the shape of any human being, and could be implanted with human social functions, they had been the perfect infiltrators as well as soldiers. Relentless, emotionless, and deadly, they had accounted for nearly 70% of the Death Eater army. Conventional tactics designed to crush enemy morale simply didn't work on them.

So when news had come that the enemy here was using golems, Sulu had, for a moment, feared that his hunt for the remaining Chinese golems had left some alive. He was glad now to know that his glassing of several areas throughout the globe had not been in vain. Those were areas that would never again see life bloom in their precincts. It deprived humanity of several large tracts of land to live in, but it had been something Sulu—along with the rest of the Imperial High Command—saw necessary.

"Anything interesting in these new dolls, Doctor Riley?" asked Sulu, while the rest of the officer corps took out their electronic notepads and began taking notes. Next to Sulu, an aide was doing the same for the dark-skinned Commander in Chief.

Riley fidgeted for a second, uncomfortable at being the focus of so many stares. "Well, they're rather crude, or so I'm told by one of our Warders."

"Explain," came the crisp order from Sulu.

"Well, while their outside is the same as an activated Terracotta soldier—that is to say, organic—the insides are very much earthen. These golems would never stand up to a thorough examination process, such as the one Harrisburg employs at its immigration desks. They can't even bleed, or simulate that process, and their skin has none of the softness of human skin tissue; it's hard as iron."

"That would explain the difficulty in taking them down," observed one of the attending generals, thereby garnering the attention of everyone present in the command tent. "Initial reports noted that it took twice as much damage to take one of these new golems out than it took to take down a Terracotta."

Screeches outside and the pointed noise of continuous gunfire told them that they were being subjected to another attempt from Riddle to raid the main camp using dragons. As with the last few times, the dragons were beat back, and the meeting continued.

"Our bayonets are also finding difficulty piercing their iron-hard exterior," continued the general. "It's got some of the boys wondering whether they can win this battle as it is."

Sulu frowned. Such grumbling, no matter how scattered and few, was a danger to morale. All it took was for one disgruntled voice to come forth, and human nature would do the rest in spreading it.

"I do not relish this, but have such voices punished for dissent," ordered Sulu reluctantly. He had to put a lid on the pessimism in the camp, but he did not like having to condemn his men to punishment for due dissent.

"Yes, sir," given the similarly reluctant tone from the general who'd been speaking, he didn't enjoy giving the order for punishment any more than Sulu did.

"Doctor Riley, please continue," requested Sulu with a wave.

The young woman nodded before going over her notes and starting to speak again from where she left off. "The golems do have a weakness, though, in their iron exterior," she noted. "Their heads."

Sulu said nothing, bringing a fist to his mouth as he pondered the doctor's words. Making a silent decision, he used his free hand to wave for his aide to go retrieve something. The aide, long accustomed to Sulu's idiosyncrasies, left the general's side and quickly returned with a oval shaped metal disk that resembled an animal feed bowl, but with the filled in and bulging circularly. Placing it on top of the Hogwarts map, the aide retreated back to Sulu's side and Riley needed no prompting to activate the disk and input the data she was referring to by sliding a small device in her hand into an open socket on the disk's side.

Instantly, a holographic image of one of the enemy's golems appeared, and Riley had the image zoom in on the head before continuing.

"The head," she began, as the image changed according to her words, "seems to be foci of the magical energies that animate the golems. While we are not exactly certain why this seems to have weakened the defensive skin in that region, it is undeniable that it has."

"Is there a theory, at least, to explain this?" asked a Major as he scribbled down what Riley had been explaining.

Riley nodded, before pointing at the region of the golem's head where the human brain would otherwise be. "We believe that the constant fluctuation of concentrated magical energies in this region has caused the skin to lose some of its magically enhanced properties, such as toughness. Not enough to collapse the integrity of this superficial defense, but enough to make them more susceptible to damage."

One of the generals was understandably disturbed by this. "So the only way to effectively take down these..._things_ is to head shot each and every one of them?" he asked, dumbfounded. "That's insane!"

Riley nodded sadly. "That, and grenades, I'm afraid. The shockwave of a grenade's impact blast is enough to collapse the integrity of the skin's hardness. Artillery shells would probably have the same impact, but we have no way of proving this, given our current situation."

She knew it was a tad cruel to remind them of their failure, but it was also the truth. As it was, the scene before her was one that could have been painted by one of those Colonial era painters and would have sold for millions. Sulu was in his field chair, his mood pensive as he glared at both the hologram and the map beneath it. His generals, their notepads out, were all either silently conversing or taking notes. There were a pair of Imperial Guards at the tent flap, looking as impassive as ever.

Truly, it was a scene straight out of a Colonial war painting.

The problem was that despite the artistic scene, the people involved had truly not a clue how to fix their current predicament. They had no way to approach the walls for a scaling maneuver without losing a good chunk of the attack force in the process. If they did launch such an attack at the moment, the casualty expectations were at about 40%, which was just unacceptable.

As Riley's own briefing had ended, the gaggle of generals began to speculate out loud how best to rectify the vexing situation with a variety of plans, many of which found opposition from some other general. Sulu, for his part, remained silent as he kept glaring at the map and the hologram.

"...ing a series of tunnels up to the walls..."

"Sapping them? Are you mad?" asked an outraged general. "We've established that those wards alert the enemy whenever they're crossed! All they'd have to do is send enough blasting spells straight down to collapse the damn thing!"

"Using our Warders is right out," was arguing another general to a colleague. "We've already lost...what? A hundred and twenty? At this rate, they'll all be dead before they can be of any use past the gates, when we're out in the open!"

"Their shields are invaluable, though!" riposted the man's colleague. "Without them, we would have lost a great deal more soldiers in our last two attempts!"

"And yet we still have two thousand of our brothers now lying in body bags!" shot back the general. "We should keep the Warders back as long range magical artillery. We don't have enough snipers to take down all of the enemy golems via head shots, but maybe having the Warders pummel them with blasting hexes will give our men at least enough time to scale the walls!"

Sulu, still in his chair with a brooding look on his face, considered that plan silently. It was by no means perfect, and the withdrawal of the Warders from the active siege complements would probably increase their casualty count a bit, but if the assault worked the way the general was describing, there was a chance that his men could seize the gates. There was only one issue.

"How would our men fight the enemy in close quarters?" asked Sulu calmly, withdrawing his fist from his face at last. "Our bayonets are all but ineffective against such hardened skin."

The tent descended into silence once again, much to Doctor Riley's amazement. It was only when she was addressed that the silence broke.

"Would normal shotgun blasts do it?" asked Sulu's aide, much to everyone's surprise. The man, mistaking the crowd's surprise for annoyance at such a junior officer voicing their opinion, attempted to quickly elaborate his idea. "Well, they pack a much meaner punch than one of our rifles, don't they? And all you really need is to aim in a general direction and the pellets do the rest."

Using normal, non-magically enhanced weaponry. The idea stumped the generals and Sulu alike. So used had they become to magical enhancements in nearly everything that they had completely forgotten about conventional, non-magical weaponry. Sulu seized on the idea immediately.

"Doctor Riley!" he barked, making the young woman jump.

"G-General Sulu?" she answered, unsure of why she was being addressed so abruptly.

"Is a magical bullet necessary to induce death in these abominations?" he asked. "Is magic necessary to bring down their head defenses?"

Riley thought about the question for a moment, occasionally glancing at the holographic image of the golem's head she'd put up, before slowly shaking her head in the negative. "Maybe not," she said. "Possibly. I wouldn't be able to confirm this without another golem body to experiment with, but if I had to venture an educated guess? It would probably work."

"But where are we to find enough to equip a siege column?" asked a general. "Have shotguns even been _issued_ since the coup?"

That was a good question. His own faction hadn't done so, Sulu knew, and Harry wasn't one to dwell on past, obsolete weaponry. Staples—maybe, if only due to lack of resources. McDonald and O'Connor were the likeliest of candidates for possessing the outdated weapons.

Glancing at his aide, Sulu made quick decision. "Captain, please go and hail the closest Airship and have them find out and retrieve the largest cache of shotguns available," he ordered. "If necessary, even from foreign nations. They owe us that much, at least."

The aide nodded and gave a salute, leaving the generals, Doctor Riley, and Sulu to their planning.

For they at last _had_ a plan.

EWEWEWEWEW

_Hogwarts Docks_

Neville listened intently as a roar was heard outside the protective cavern where the staircase up to Hogwarts lay. '_Dragons_,' thought Neville. '_Probably probing the Basilisk warships' anti-air capabilities.'_

A good idea, Neville admitted. Unlike the Death Eaters, who just launched everything in tides, Riddle seemed more intent in probing out weaknesses and then exploiting them for all they were worth. A particularly aggravating example of this was the fact that the bridge that had led Neville's column to the docks was now lying on the lake bed in pieces—the work of several dragon strafing runs that had ended with several sections melted right through.

As such, Neville and his men were now stuck inside the staircase cavern with no way out. The worse part was that this was all to the enemy's advantage, for their inability to reach the battlefield now essentially put him and his men out of the fight. Neville was fairly certain that this meant that Riddle would mobilize what men he had protecting the broken stairway towards reinforcing the front gates, making Sulu's job that much harder.

'_If only I could repair the bloody thing!_' raged Neville mentally as he gazed at the vaporized section of the staircase. Unfortunately, he had not counted on the extent of the _Bombarda_ grenade's destruction.

Having had a full night's rest, Neville had attempted to make good on his word to repair the staircase, but had quickly found out that this was just not possible. Maybe it was the lingering magic in the cavern that had accumulated over the years of magical students using this staircase or maybe it was something else entirely, but whatever the reason for it, the _Bombarda_ grenade's blast had been multiplied several times over what Neville had expected, essentially vaporizing the section of stairs that he needed to get his men into position. There was nothing _to_ repair!

Which meant that about two thousand Imperial crack troops were now stuck out of combat. Two thousand out of fifty thousand. The remaining forty eight had not even managed to get across the bridge, or even on it, when the dragons finally took it down. Hell, it was a miracle they had this much to begin with. Only the fact that the bridge had been wide had allowed so many troops to get across. Even then, he had never expected the two thousand to actually _fit_ inside the cavern. Still, he was pleasantly surprised when the cavern gradually seemed to enlarge to fit the two thousand warriors. Apparently the cavern had been designed to automatically change itself to fit however many students arrived. For once, the blasted castle's spells would work in _favour_ of the Imperial cause.

Of course, that help also amounted to very little, seeing how they couldn't _go_ anywhere.

Near Neville, all of them crouching on the floor or sitting, the officers that _had_ made it across—forty out of a couple hundred—were quietly devising a plan, bearing in mind to keep Neville within earshot for approval.

The latest plan was to swim around the cliff and make a beachhead on the other side, with the Navy transporting the remaining 48,000 troops across the Lake in dinghies. The biggest problem with that was that the constant firing of the _Basilisk_ warships had caused the water of the Lake to become somewhat violent near the cliff, resulting in constant, heavy waves crashing against the bedrock. Most likely, a decent chunk of the men would end up crushed to death, and the dinghies, if they came to pick them up, would end up crashed against the cliff.

Sighing, Neville voiced the issue, and the officers, realising the truth behind their commander's words, abandoned the plan and went on to the next one.

"What about a Wolfe?" suggested a Captain.

Neville sighed. "That's what we were trying to do, Captain," he reminded the junior officer. To Neville's surprise, the man shook his head.

"Not, not this, I mean a _real_ Wolfe!" insisted the man.

Neville frowned. What exactly was the man implying? "Explain."

The man fidgeted, suddenly nervous, but nonetheless grabbed the stick they were using to draw on the ground and made a crude drawing of where they were vis-a-vis the cliff outside. "See, what we're doing is a typical flanking manoeuvre, really. Taking advantage of an impossible-to-reach location and using it to hit the enemy's soft spot."

All of the officers, including Neville, leaned over or moved closer to watch with interest.

"But since the way to their soft spot has been cut off," continued the man, striking a line through the area of the staircase that they had blasted away accidentally, "We need to find a new way to get back into the fight, yeah?"

"Right..." agreed Neville, cupping his chin with his hand thoughtfully.

The Captain, however, made no sign that he heard his superior, and kept drawing. "Now, Major Williams here wanted us to dig our way up the cliff, but with only one magic user here, that would take weeks, especially once we hit the bedrock," he added, making Williams grumble. "However, the idea of getting to the top of the cliff is still a good one."

"So how do we get there, Captain?" asked another Major, who was looking somewhat excited. The Captain's arguments seemed logical thus far, and from the look in the man's eyes, he had thought of a way to get around their situation.

The Captain grinned. "We pull a Wolfe," he said, marking an X on the sight of the cliff. "The docks outside go right against the cliff side, so all we need to do is climb it."

Silence descended on the group. None of them had honestly considered what the Captain was proposing. For one, they had never thought the initial plan would fail, and two, they had never considered the cliff climbable. Even now that scepticism was still very much alive.

"Is that even feasible?" asked another Captain, this one from one of the Seventh Legion's multiple companies. "I mean, did you even look at it while we were crossing? It's smooth from top to bottom!"

Most of the muttering that followed was made in agreement with the Captain's assessment of the cliff, but the Captain that had made the initial suggestion shook his head.

"That's true, for the most part," he said with a smirk. "It seems that although the cliff is impossible to climb from the front due to erosion, the sides have been suitably shielded from the elements. The cliff side next to the docks is perfectly climbable."

Neville felt a surge of excitement as he heard the words leave the Captain's mouth. He could scarcely believe that there had always been such a way out of their predicament. Now that he thought about it, he could even conjure the necessary equipment to get his column moving up the cliff!

Upon seeing their commander's face, the other officers knew that he was sold, and all protests against the plan died instantly. Instead, they began discussing logistics.

"We'll need long, _long_ ropes," warned one of the Majors. "Has to be tough enough to handle several hundred men at the same time, too."

"I can take care of that," said Neville commandingly. "What's got _me_ worried is if the men know how to properly scale cliffs," he admitted.

Major Williams waved his hand dismissively. "If they've gone through Basic, they know how to scale cliffs. And let's face it, not a single soldier has been brought here that hasn't been a war veteran, so the likelihood of one of them not knowing proper procedure is nil."

That reassured Neville somewhat, and before he knew it, he was conjuring the necessary rope and placing Unbreakable charms on them. One of the soldiers—a man who'd loved mountain climbing before the war—inspected the rope and, after tugging on it hard, declared it fit for use. Now that they had a plan, and the materials to carry it out, however, they had to decide what to do once on top of the cliff.

"We can't be expected to launch an assault on the castle with merely two thousand men and no specialists!" argued a Captain.

"Well, we can't just sit here and wait out the battle, now can we?" demanded Tomlinson before suggesting, "What if we have the Navy ferry the remaining lads over to join in on the climb?"

Neville shook his head, his hand once again cupping his chin thoughtfully. "The dragons will notice immediately. We'd be putting whoever's still climbing at risk."

Major Williams sighed tiredly. A glance out the cavern entrance told him that the sun was going to set soon. "What if we just send a scout up first to check things out and _then_ we decide?" he asked, expecting no one to agree.

Which was the reason he was so surprised when nearly everyone agreed. Albeit, with the condition that only the stealthiest of the troops go, since getting their cover blown at this point would mean they would not be able to carry out the plan.

In the end, it was decided that a young woman—heck if she could be called one, considering she appeared 19—was to go. She had been a veteran of Harrisburg, and before that she had been, albeit briefly, part of the Third Legion before transferring to the Second. That was enough of a resumé to satisfy everyone, given the Third Legion's focus on camouflage and silent tactics.

The young woman, an Irish-born named Emily Murphy, was briefed thoroughly on the goals of her mission and warned time after time about being seen by the enemy. Neville, for whom the teen had enormous respect as her former Third Legion commander, even told her that she would be placed under a Disillusionment spell in order to maximise her stealth capabilities.

Emily was not to climb for another few hours, though, as the officers had unanimously decided that she would be safest under the cover of dark, and the sun had not yet set. So for two hours, the stranded soldiers waited patiently while the sun edged further down, waiting patiently for the moment when their scout would be off.

Finally, the time had arrived, and the dimly lit cavern was flooded with light as the magical torches inside flared to life. Still all could hear the sound of the _Basilisk_ warships bombing the defensive shields protecting the front gates, but beside that, there were no sounds of battle. A good sign.

Quietly, Neville, Emily, and a few other of the officers went out of the cavern's safety and made their way towards the cliff side, where they saw that the Captain's assessment of the cliff's condition was spot on. Another good sign.

Instantly, the Emily was helped into her climbing harness, while Neville and the rest of the officers briefed her one last time about her mission goals. She was to get to the top, observe the situation, and then get back down without being noticed. If there was a chance she would be found out, she was to abort and wait until such a danger passed. If by half an hour the situation had not changed, she was to get back down. She had an hour, _tops_, to do her scouting before they assumed she was captured.

"You understand, yes?" asked Neville, just to make sure. He had a pleased smile when Emily nodded. "Excellent. Remember to attach the ropes when you get to the top; we'll be needing them tomorrow."

Emily nodded once and gave a stiff salute. Getting this much attention from Neville Longbottom himself was like a dream come true to the girl, and she silently vowed not to let him down.

Carefully, the dark-haired teen placed a firm grip on a rock slightly above her head-level and, securing her footing on a rock slightly above knee level, pulled herself up, all the while feeling the effects of the Disillusionment spell take effect.

"Good luck," she heard one of the officers tell her as she continued her way up in a similar fashion.

Fifteen minutes of climbing, and Emily could already tell that she was high enough to kill herself if she fell off. The climbing rope was firmly tied to her waist, and her harness was attached to nothing; it was only being used to carry the picks she could use if she ever found trouble finding a good, solid place to grip.

About a third of the way up, she paused in her climb, breathing heavily as she felt her muscles protest at the continuous climb. This was exertion in a way she had never been conditioned to withstand. That mountain climber in her Legion would have had no trouble at all, she knew, but the fact that he was so tall and bulky made him a much easier target to spot. Emily, on the other hand, was lithe and of average height, and she had been a member of the Third Legion, which underwent training for combat in all sorts of environments.

Still, Emily had only _been_ in the Legion for a year. True, she had been selected for it right out of recruitment at the age of 17, but by the time she was 18, she had been transferred to the Second Legion, which was usually deployed for field battles.

"Honour and Victory," she hissed under her breath, repeating her Legion's motto over and over as she ended her break and resumed her climb. It gave her mental strength to chant the Second's motto, pushing back the tired thoughts and letting her focus entirely on her mission.

Grunting with each pull, Emily stubbornly made her way up the cliff. She let nothing affect her concentration—not even when she accidentally cause a piece of gravel to come loose and cut her cheek superficially. Ignoring the warm feeling of blood on her cheek, she suppressed the stinging pain and kept up her steady climb.

The closet call Emily got was when she accidentally lost her footing during a particularly hard pull, and only her hands being firmly latched onto a good ledge had saved her. Fighting down her panic, she had swung her body forward with all the grace of a dancer and had recuperated her footing before continuing her ascent.

"Honour and Victory!" she kept up the chant as she saw her goal come closer and closer within reach. Of course, she took great care in making sure that no one heard her—it would not do to have herself captured after she had tried to hard to prove herself to Brigadier Longbottom!

Finally, the last meter lay before her. Finding a strong ledge to grip, Emily pulled herself only high enough for her eyes to cross the top of the cliff, thereby minimising her presence, Disillusioned though she was. To her relief, no one seemed to be around, and the teen pulled herself fully on top of the cliff, a surge of pride rising within her at her feat.

Bringing out her pistol, she quietly made sure it wasn't primed before sticking it back in its holster, satisfied. She then crept forward towards the castle entryway, all the while keeping her eyes open for any enemy soldiers.

Finding none in her immediate vicinity, she got into a crouch and set off towards the road that led down towards the grounds between the castle and the front gate. To her surprise, no enemy troops seemed to be on the cliff—or even in the immediate vicinity of the castle itself. Instead, only illuminated by the fires of the Imperial artillery's blasts against the gates' defensive shields, she could see row upon row of enemy soldiers filling the grounds. Clearly, the enemy had assumed that there was simply no way for the flanking manoeuvre to occur, and had pulled everything to stop an incursion via the front gates. Even the second gate had a paltry dozen patrolling the walls!

Emily was hard pressed to keep herself from voicing her pleasure at the situation out loud. Thank whatever deity there be that the enemy hadn't realised how stubborn soldier of the Empire were in getting around difficulties! Otherwise, they would have kept a guard on the cliff.

After half an hour of observation, Emily knew she had what she needed. Slowly, she crept back to the place she had climbed up from and carefully descended onto the rope—securing the rope to her harness all the while—which she had nailed toughly into the cliff side. Taking out another few nails, she proceeded to repeat the procedure with four other pieces of rope. Tugging on them to make sure the nails wouldn't easily come out, she then rappelled her way down the cliff side.

The way down was obviously a lot quicker than going up, and she soon found herself back at the docks, where she whispered out her identification phrase.

"Imperium" she whispered out.

"Aevitas," replied someone, and almost instantly, several ripples in the air appeared, dissolving to reveal several Imperial soldiers, armed and ready to fire. Obviously sentries waiting for her return. "Emily?" asked one of them.

Emily sighed in relief. "John!"

The sentries made their way to the cliff side, but then remembered that she was Disillusioned. "Err...Emily?" said John, somewhat nervously. "We can't see you."

Emily wanted to smack herself. "The General put that invisibility spell on me. Is he around?"

John nodded and motioned for one of his colleagues to get Neville. In the meantime, one of the other sentries kneeled down and recovered what appeared to be a small metallic disk. Emily quickly recognised it as an Invisibility Camouflage Device. Obviously, they weren't taking any chances.

Soon enough, Neville returned with the sentry and Emily was made visible once more. Brushing aside normal social conventions, Neville quickly delved into the matter he was most concerned about.

"Well?" he asked. "What's the situation?"

Emily grinned at Neville. "All clear, sir. Not a soul in sight."

Neville's look of utter triumph made Emily's day.

EWEWEWEWEW

_HMAS Invincible_

"_All personnel are asked to clear the landing platform in Dock One. Repeat, All personnel are--"_

So went on the mechanical voice through the speakers in the hangar. Of course, the docking crews present were all so thoroughly trained in procedure that they had begun to do as the voice requested well before it ever blared to life. At the same time, soldiers took positions all around the hangar bay, ready to open fire if the people within the landing shuttle happened to be hostile. Not that they expected them to be, but Harry Potter's own assault on an Airship that had lacked such security was a grim reminder that it _was_ possible.

The shuttle in question, however, had been expected for a while now. Two days, in fact—ever since it was requested by the Duke himself. All that the hangar crew knew was that the cargo onboard the shuttle was of enormous importance and incredibly top secret. So much so that a stern warning had been issued hours before that peeking or damaging of the cargo could be met by firing squad. It was an incredibly harsh punishment they were being threatened with, but the crew had no doubts that if the Duke had set the standard so high, it was because the cargo would be critical to the siege.

As expected, the shuttle released a hissing noise as the landing gear was lowered and the docking ramp slid out from the side of the hull, lowering itself diagonally onto the floor. Only once the ramp had hit the floor did the hangar crew move forward towards the shuttle, aiming for the underbelly of the ship, where the cargo lift would lower any moment now.

At the same time, the section of the hull right above the docking ramp seemed to pop in and to the side, revealing the insides of the ship. The first people out were, predictably, the security detail onboard—Imperial Guardsmen from the Fifth Legion. The ten soldiers made their way down the ramp and exchanged documentation with the hangar security detail officer on call. Once the security detail officer was satisfied with the documentation, the Guardsmen activated a small device that sent back an "all clear" signal to the ship, indicating it was safe for the occupants to disembark.

The first person to come out, after the Guardsmen, was a familiar redhead who wore his hair in a ponytail and had a lab coat on. With a grin of excitement, he descended the ramp, followed by a stunning blonde that had many a soldier and crewman in the hangar whistling appreciatively.

As the redheaded man got to the bottom of the ramp, he noticed a highly decorated man approaching them. The man had the rank of Admiral stitched onto his uniform, but the redhead did not salute, instead offering his hand in greeting.

The redheaded man grinned. "It's good to see you again, Admiral Wolf. I'm glad to say I brought you lads some damned good presents."

Admiral Wolf smiled in return. "I dare say the Duke will be pleased to hear that, Mister Weasley."

Bill's grin never faltered.

"Yes, I dare say he will."


	40. Chapter XXXIII: Plans in Motion

_From "A Complete Guide to the Imperial Armed Forces," by J.J. Silverson._

_Chapter IV, "History of the Imperial Legions."_

"_Of the entire Imperial Armed Forces, no body of armed soldiers garner as much respect and deference as the First Six Legions. Despite the uncreative epithet, the First Six have long since been accepted as the founding body of the modern Imperial Army. Unlike the members of the Seventh Legion and onwards—with the exception of the 51st Legion, of course—the First Six Legions were, at the time of the end of the Dark Wars, entirely comprised of veterans which had fought in the war for at least over a year. At the time of the end of the Dark Wars, a single company of these mighty Legions was a prized gain for any army, and generals veritably fought over their assignments..._

_...Today, the Founding Legions have still retained their specialized roles from the Dark Wars, and have still kept their entry requirements high. No man without at least a term of five years in service, and participation in at least six different battles during that time, can enter these legendary Legions."_

* * *

_Unknown Location..._

One figure chuckled as it sat on one side of the chessboard, the faint sound of chains rattling emerging as he did so. "I'm surprised at you," he admitted.

His rival raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How so?"

"You're not interfering? You're letting them plan on their own?"

A sly grin made its way onto the man's face. "I don't hire incompetent imbeciles to work as my underlings, you know. They're perfectly capable of carrying out their missions."

"Underlings..." mused the figure amusedly. "Like that Sulu fellow? Isn't he your boss?"

The man kept his sly smile. "For now. Sulu has never truly cherished being in command, and this battle will be the last straw before he decides to step aside."

An approving, hissing laugh emerged from the figure. "Such devious cunning. You would have fit well in the noble House of Slytherin."

The man chuckled. Again, the noise of chains rattling. "Yes, so I've heard."

The two then returned to their game.

* * *

_HMAS Invincible_

Bill stared at Harry's inert body with curiosity for about five minutes before turning to Admiral Wolf. "How long has he been this way?" he asked curiously.

Wolf shrugged. "A day? Maybe? He's been this way since a few minutes after he gave the order to launch the offensive."

Bill nodded as he returned his gaze onto Harry, who had a seemingly peaceful look on his face. A cursory spell had told everyone that Harry was very much alive, and that his brain activity was normal—it thus made no sense that he was absolutely unresponsive.

"Did he leave any orders before he suddenly dozed off?" asked Bill then, lowering his head so he was eye level with Harry's body. Even the fluctuations in chest height told the redheaded scientist that his leader was very much alive.

"None," came Wolf's immediate answer. "It's like he wants us to figure this battle out by ourselves."

Bill smiled. "It would certainly be like him to do something like that," he agreed. Apparently, this was not what Wolf had expected to hear.

"Really?" asked Wolf, surprised. "No offense meant, but His Grace has always struck me as something of an obsessive compulsive..."

Bill chuckled, even as he straightened up. "Nah. Harry's actually very laid back. He just goes like that whenever he's 'in the zone,' so to speak. Sometimes for months on end," he informed Wolf, who looked shocked at the revelation. "Honestly, if his vitals haven't decreased, and seeing how you've been feeding him intravenously, I think it's best if we just leave him be and proceed with the battle according to our own discretion."

"B-But our orders..." protested Wolf.

Bill waved the concerns aside. "Technically, we've got Harry's superior on site, no? General Sulu should be able to take up the mantle."

Wolf seemed unsure what to make of that. Sure, Sulu _was_ the Duke's technical superior...but realistically? Well, it was a dead certain fact that the First Legion would be unwilling to go through with that reasoning.

Wolf voiced these concerns to Bill. "The First won't like taking orders from anyone other than His Grace..." he reminded the redhead, who promptly chuckled.

"If Harry's doing what I think he's doing, they won't have to. He'll be back _just_ in time to take command once more," assured Bill.

Wolf was intrigued by Bill's response. "What do you think he's doing?"

Bill grinned, glancing at Harry knowingly. "If I had to venture a guess?" he mused. "Playing chess."

Wolf looked flabbergasted. "Chess?" he asked. "How? With _whom_?"

Bill shrugged. "That, I don't know. I _do_ know, however, that Harry plays chess in his mind whenever he feels the need to think things through; he visualizes the battle as a chess game, you see. Though I'm surprised. He's absolutely rubbish at the game," he observed. "_I_ could beat him, for goodness' sake. Nevermind my youngest brother."

Even Wolf had to chuckle at the hilariously true observation. After all, just as the Duke's reputation on the battlefield was legendary, so too was his utter lack of skill in chess. General Sulu had beaten him, as had most of his subordinates. In fact, most of the military could beat the Duke in chess, nevermind the civilians!

Of course, when it came to _battlefield_ simulations...

"So we just leave him here?" asked Wolf, returning to the pressing issue.

Bill nodded. "Harry's put too much at stake in this siege to just leave it in the hands of his subordinates, even if he does trust them to go it alone for a while," he stated calmly. "He'll be back when it's time."

"Time for what?" asked Wolf.

Bill shrugged. "No idea, but Harry once told me that luck in war was merely identifying the right time to perform a certain action and then acting on it," he told Wolf. "So if I had to venture another guess, I'd say he'll be back whenever we'll feel like we're in need of some heavy dosage of luck."

* * *

_Siege of Hogwarts, Day 2, Evening – Front Gates Offensive..._

Sulu could only watch with a sense of accomplishment as the wagons full of cases wheeled into his camp. They were positively _stacked_ with the large, rectangular crates!

"How many did we get?" asked Sulu to his aide, absently noting that the Shielders were starting to turn on the magical torches that lit up the camp.

The Captain in question drew up the communiqué on his notepad and consulted it before giving Sulu his answer. "About 400 crates, each containing ten shotguns, sir. The _Auburn Fire_ found a cache of them in Ireland, and the Irish government was only too happy to hand them over in thanks for the help in ridding them of the Death Eaters."

Sulu grunted. He had no doubt that the Irish felt grateful, but he also knew them to be very crafty. More likely, the Irish had seen an opportunity to get some leverage in their negotiations for entry into the Empire as an equal partner and aid for their reconstruction efforts.

"Why'd it take so long, then?" asked Sulu.

The Captain shrugged. "The problem wasn't getting them from Ireland, sir. That was easy enough. No, the problem was getting them here. As you know, the anti-technological wards have been expanded exponentially since the times McDonald laid siege on Hogwarts. The _Auburn Fire_ had to land the crates at the very edge of Scotland and wagons had to do the rest," explained the aide.

Sulu nodded. That, unfortunately, made sense. "They all work, yes?"

The Captain seemed nervous at the question. "I...don't know, General. The Irish seem to believe they do. Should we have them checked?"

Sulu shook his head. "No, they should be fine. It wouldn't do for the Irish to double-cross us this late in the game," he observed. "Distribute the weapons to the companies that will be performing the actual storming."

The Captain made a note of it on his notepad. "Very well, sir. Any preferences on the lead companies, sir?"

Sulu thought for a moment. "How many Second Legion companies do we have present?"

The Captain checked his notes before answering. "Out of two hundred in total, fifty are present in this campaign. Twenty five were assigned to Brigadier Longbottom's column, but only one made it across the bridge. That leaves forty nine that are at our disposal. The rest of the Legion is spread out around the Empire."

The Second Legion, nicknamed the Vanilla Lads, were the Empire's elite assault troops. While the First consisted of the all-around best troops in the entirety of the Empire, the Second Legion was the Empire's finest troops when it came to assaulting locations. When Sydney had been on the verge of being liberated, the Second Legion had been called in when a particularly difficult-to-take enemy position had been found. The Second Legion had, where no one else had managed, broken through the enemy defenses and captured the heavily fortified redoubt in question. Where hundreds had previously been lost, the Second Legion lost ten men.

"Which Company made it across the bridge?" asked Sulu, hoping it wasn't the one he wanted.

No suck luck. "The First Company, sir," reported the aide mournfully. He, too, would have loved to have the First Company of the Second Legion on hand for the assault on the gates. Unfortunately, it was not to be.

"Are any of the rest from the First Ten?" asked Sulu then. While losing the First was a blow to his offense, any of the first ten companies would do an equally admirable job, he knew. That was why they were collectively referred as the First Ten. Of course, this terminology only applied to the Founding Legions, the First Six. From the Seventh Legion onwards, none of the Legions had a specialized role like the First Six; they just provided the manpower needed for big offensives.

The aide nodded. "Fortunately, sir, the Third and Fourth Companies are here. The Second was assigned to Admiral Malan for her clean up work in Africa, and the others are spread out between the the Pacific, Continental Europe, and Canada."

Sulu nodded. Two out of ten First Ten companies was not bad. Most generals would undoubtedly go their whole careers without ever having _one_ such Company under their command. That was how prized the First Ten companies of the First Six Legions were. To have one under one's command was a sign of personal excellence. Sulu, of course, could requisition all of them in his capacity as supreme military commander of the Empire—barring Elizabeth—but doing so would cost him the respect of probably the entire Army.

"I want both of them to spearhead the assault," he predictably ordered. The aide hadn't even needed the order before he was already jotting down the assignment. _Not_ having the Third and Fourth Companies of the Second Legion lead the attack when they were present would have been both a military blunder and an insult to the Second's pride.

"As you say, sir," the aide dutifully said. "Anyone else you particularly wish to take a major role in the assault?"

Sulu thought for a moment before shaking his head. "No. Have the rest of the assault columns formed up with the usual mix of different Legions," he ordered.

"Yes, si--" began the aide, before Sulu cut him off just as quickly.

"No, wait," interrupted Sulu, raising a hand to his chin and frowning in thought. He remained this way for a few seconds before speaking up again. "Have the Seventh and Eighth Legions follow behind the Second Legion companies separately. Say...the Seventh Legion and Third Company on the left side of the gate, and the Eigth and Fourth on the right. Keep the remains of the Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh, and Twelfth on reserve."

The aide raised an eyebrow. "Yes, sir," he said, not a little dubiously. What was the General planning?

"And," continued Sulu, "circulate a rumour amongst the men of those two Legions that the Legion to capture the wall quickest will receive a reward—a banquet hosted by Her Majesty in their honour."

The aide's eyes widened. Typically, he would have regarded this sort of underhanded tactic as reprehensible and outrageous manipulation. However, he could presently see the benefits of such a tactic, and they were many.

The Seventh and Eighth Legions were unremarkable, truth be told. They were, for the most part, post-Restoration volunteers. Many were experiencing battle for the first time on this day, and they had accounted for the majority of the casualties in the previous few assaults. Truthfully, the aide had considered suggesting pulling them off the line altogether, if only to stop the hemorrhage of dead bodies littering the battlefield.

However, this tactic of the General's could very well turn these city boys-turned-soldiers into real veterans. Anyone who lived in the Empire post-coup had developed a fanatic attachment to the Crown—even more so after the Restoration. He had heard that prior to their launch, the Second Legion had been witness to a speech and to the presence of the Queen herself. The Captain finally understood why the Second Legion had essentially gone berserk in this battle. They threw themselves like fanatics at the enemy, and where the Seventh and Eighth Legions had suffered terrible casualties, the Second had taken a good deal of the enemy with them, even though about two companies' worth of their men had been mowed down. A terrible price, but it had been enough to drive the enemy from the field and to their unassailable gate.

Frankly, with the way things were going every time an Imperial unit was graced with the Queen's presence, the Captain imagined it was only a matter of time before a cult sprung up. But that was unlikely.

In any case, he was quick to agree with Sulu's tactic. "A brilliant plan, sir," he praised as he jotted down the instructions. "When do you want the assault to begin?" he asked.

Sulu looked up at the lowering sun. Technically, he should wait until the next day before launching the attack, but something told him he should strike while the iron was hot, and the enemy was unaware of his new weapons. "Tonight," he stated after a moment of contemplation.

The aide was surprised. "Tonight, sir? Wouldn't dawn be a better time to launch such a massive assault?" he asked. He saw Sulu shake his head.

"Dawn grants the enemy more visibility, and they could find out about our new weapons. We cannot give them that time. We attack tonight," reasoned Sulu.

The aide was unsure of the soundness of this choice, but submitted to the will of the General nonetheless. With a solemn, respectful salute, the aide turned and left the general in order to carry out his instructions.

Sulu, meanwhile, was glaring at the gates beyond the Imperial camp. The blasted things had costed him too much already. If only he had curse breakers! But alas, those magic users skilled enough in order to become curse breakers had either opted to become a Shielder instead or had no interest in the profession, making curse breakers an incredibly rare and valued commodity in any army.

The dark-skinned general scowled at what he saw as the bane of his existence. How many letters did he now have to write to families telling them their sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, cousins, aunts, and/or uncles would not be coming home? All because he had underestimated the enemy.

Well, Sulu decided, that would _never_ happen again.

* * *

_Siege of Hogwarts, Day 2, Night – Front Gate Offensive._

Completely going against previous methodology, the Imperial camp had turned off all of its torches, leaving the Imperial field headquarters in total darkness, and at the same time eliminating them from the view of the gate defenders. Not that the automatons realized the significance of this tactic. After all, they were just soldier drones. Still, they patrolled the gate's walls dutifully and turned to look at the invisible Imperial camp every once in a while.

Unseen to them, two great Imperial columns had used the cover of darkness to get into position at their respective sites on either side of the gate. They were both about two hundred yards from the walls, and both columns had numerous siege ladders ready to be deployed.

As Sulu had instructed, the Seventh Legion and the Second Legion Third Company had stationed themselves on the left side, while the Eighth Legion and the Second Legion Fourth Company were on the right. Both columns were radiating eagerness. Both had, as Sulu had planned, heard the rumours of the Royal-hosted banquet in their honour if they captured their side the quickest, and both Legions had the spirits of their men burning bright with uncommon valour as a result. The general had no doubt that the men would fight multiple times as hard as they used to just because of the promise of this rich reward.

Sulu himself was standing at the edge of the camp facing the enemy gate, despite the reservations of his staff. He wanted to be as close as possible to get a good look at the situation as it developed. If all went well, after all, the siege of Hogwarts would be a great deal closer to completion. So absorbed was he by his thoughts and observations that failed to notice when a woman appeared at his side, wearing white Imperial Assassin robes.

"John," said the woman in an attempt to gain his attention. It worked, and Sulu slightly jumped from the sudden greeting. He visibly relaxed when he noticed the face under the cotton hood.

"Ginny," greeted Sulu with a smile, before realizing that he had no idea that the Duchess herself was to be present at this battle. Given the looks of her, she even looked ready to fight! "What on earth are you doing here?" he asked, perplexed.

Ginny smiled from under her hood. "Harry sent me, of course," she said plainly, as if there was any doubt to the contrary. "He said to show up if you started having difficulties."

Sulu couldn't help but feel slightly irritated as the unintentional blow to his pride. He knew he should simply be grateful for the help, but it didn't help that Harry had _expected_ him to fail his given task. He idly wondered if Neville was also getting such help on his side.

"What are you offering to do?" he asked instead, actually quite curious. Alone, she would end up being butchered. Master assassin or not, no one could capture that gate single-handedly.

Ginny kept up her smile. "Our sources indicate that there's a small, very small passage to the other side of the gate in the mountain range to the east. It's too small for a decent flanking force, but good enough for me and my assassins."

Well, that answered one question—she had backup.

"We can circle the gates and attempt to open them from behind while you seek control of the walls," she continued. "Is that reasonable?"

Sulu nodded, but asked a question that he thought he probably knew the answer to. "Why not just wait for you to open the gate?" he asked. "Why have my men assault the walls in the first place?" Ginny raised an unseen eyebrow beneath her hood before giving a smirk.

"Distraction, of course. Besides, the enemy main force, from what we've managed to gather from Neville, is directly behind the gates. If you charge in after we open them without having captured the walls, you'll come directly against the enemy main army _and_ get your flanks assaulted at the same time. I'm sure you understand what that would mean to this siege," she finished, her tone somewhere between amused and challenging.

Sulu understood very well what that meant, and so posed no challenge to the plan. If his flanks were not secured when he challenged the main army to battle, his army would be cut to pieces before the Imperial forces ever got a chance to do anything.

"Go, then," he agreed to the proposed plan. "Good luck."

Ginny nodded once before turning on the spot and disappearing. Fortunately, since the Apparation wards were not expanded beyond the gates of Hogwarts, she was unhindered in her movements. This left Sulu to his staff, and oddly, given Ginny's appearance, a semblance of calm filled the general. It was comforting to know that Harry was, through Ginny, was very much aware of what was happening and lending his aide whenever it was needed.

With that assurance in mind, Sulu looked up to the sky and saw only blackness. It was fitting, in a sense. He then looked down back to his staff and gave a brief nod. Immediately, the men in question had Shielders give the go-ahead.

As the two columns sprang to life, Sulu saw them move towards forward for a few seconds before the blackness of the night swallowed them up and they were gone from his vision. He and his staff remained silent thereafter, merely peering into the darkness before them, hoping to get a glimpse of what was going on.

"What now?" one of the more junior Generals asked.

Sulu kept his stare impassive. "We wait."

Wait long, they did not have to. Within minutes of the two columns disappearing from view, shouts broke out from the wall, and the darkness was suddenly swept away as several flare-like spells shot out into the sky from the wall. As clear as day, Sulu and his staff finally saw that the columns had managed to reach the wall unhindered, and several ladders had already been set up. Sulu smiled.

So far, things were going better than he had hoped.

* * *

_Hogwarts Front Gates Offensive, Imperial Assassination Team Alpha..._

Ginny reappeared silently before her assigned teammates, immediately noting their state of readiness and equipment. All of them were wearing black robes in order to better camouflage themselves in the night, and all of them seemed readily geared for their little mountain hike.

Ginny stared at all ten of her teammates for a second before nodding awkwardly at them. She was not used to leading teams. She was always on her own in her assigned missions, and so had never really gotten used to giving commands and the like. She preferred it that way, she supposed—less attachment to more people that lived their lives on the razor thin edge of a blade. She already knew and befriended enough of those to make her feel older than she was from the constant worrying.

She was also not unaware that the men currently under her command were looking at her with undisguised awe. She was a legend amongst Imperial Intelligence agents, and her kill record had yet to be beaten by anyone else. She was simply the best in her field. That didn't mean much to her, though. In a straight fight, she had no doubts that Sirius, Remus, or even the Potter elders could beat her—and none of _them_ could beat Harry.

With the unspoken greeting out of the way, Ginny made a hand sign for them to follow her—the signal only visible to them thanks to the special, night-vision lenses they had all placed on their eyes—before turning around and making a dash for the mountain north of the main gate. The gate itself, rumour had it, was built out of a mountain that had originally existed where the gate now stood—a long and arduous work performed by the Founders. Whether that rumour was true or not mattered little to Ginny, because her target was not the main gate itself, but a small path that erosion and the passage of time had created through the mountain that bordered the gate's northern end.

Checking behind her, Ginny was pleased to see that her teammates were all keeping up with her running pace. While Assassins were _supposed_ to keep on the move at fast paces on typical missions, Ginny had always been much faster than the common Assassin. Obviously, either Harry had arranged for the ten fastest Assassins to accompany her, or Imperial Intelligence had done so on their own initiative. Either way, it was convenient for her.

Given their pace, the team soon enough reached the foot of the mountain and had to crane their heads high in order to see how high the mountain went. Again, though, this mattered little to them outside of casual curiosity, and so they were back on the move the moment Ginny finished consulting her memory of where the passage was located.

They had to cover about half a mile in distance before finding the blasted route into the mountain—and even then, after having passed it twice. It was hard to find even if one was looking for it specifically. Practically a simple crack in the mountain side—undoubtedly the work of changing temperatures and rainfall, it was nonetheless big enough for the Assassins to make their way through.

Ginny turned to her teammates now and made another series of hand signals. She indicated that she would go through first, after which they were to follow immediately. After getting acknowledging nods from the other Assassins, Ginny took a deep breath and slid into the crack sideways. As the rock wall before her pressed at her breasts, she was thankful she had bound them tightly before setting out—otherwise, she might not have managed to get through at all, or the attempt would have been painful.

She kept going for about thirty metres of side-sliding before she finally reached an area that seemed wide enough to fit the largest of her teammates' width—leaving her ample space to maneuver in, given her own petite stature. Turning around, she patiently waited for the rest of her team to come into the wider path before signaling them to keep moving and then setting off herself. She only paused long enough to perk her ears as dull explosions sounded off in the distance.

One of her teammates, breaking typical mission protocol, observed, "Looks like the fight's started."

Ginny nodded quietly. She dared not speak, as she was not totally convinced that this path had fallen into their laps coincidentally. Then again, she was a very suspicious person by nature.

The rest of the team, however, were staring at the Assassin who'd spoken in a reproaching manner. They had all assumed that the man's speech had offended Ginny due to the fact that the rules demanded absolute silence during these missions. Little did they know that Ginny herself was not so quiet during most of her missions, typically showing herself to her victims and letting them have their final words. But then, she had the skill to allow that to happen and _still_ get away—most Assassins didn't. Not yet, anyway.

Ginny ignored the stares and once again signaled the group to move out, with herself at the head of the group. This made a few of them uncomfortable yet again, of course, since they weren't sure as to the soundness of the Duchess leading this sort of risky mission. Sure, she was a legend amongst their kind, but she was also the Duke's wife, and there wasn't a man alive who didn't fear the Duke's retribution if ill tidings ever befell his precious wife.

Either way, the assassins kept their mouths shut. Speaking such concerns would probably offend the Duchess, and while they feared the "if" of the Duke's wrath if she got hurt, they also feared the "will" of the _Duchess_' wrath if they spoke out these fears.

Silently, the team of eleven assassins made their way down the path through the mountain, noticing that their elevation kept rising steadily as they progressed. If the path didn't start lowering soon, or evened out, at least, then they would face some difficulty getting down when they reached the end. None of them had brought mountain-climbing equipment, given the fact that none of them had actually considered that the path would keep rising, instead of remaining ground level. In hindsight, they really should have.

Ginny, however, was less than worried about such a scenario. How many times had she found herself at higher-than-convenient heights, only to get herself out of that mess? She knew enough of her craft by now to see such obstacles as annoyances, rather than hindrances. Another flurry of hand signals told her men to close ranks on her, given that she could hear the sounds of battle coming ever closer.

The ten assassins behind her immediately complied with her order, speeding up until less than a meter of distance was between each assassin. Sure enough, the path was finally sloping downwards, and the sounds of explosions were drawing nearer. Suddenly, Ginny raised a halting fist, and the assassins behind her ground to a sharp halt behind her.

"What is it, Your Grace?" asked the closest assassin.

Ginny did not answer immediately. Instead, she frowned as she considered the sight before her. The path they had taken was finally opening up to the battlefield beyond, and what she was observing made her uneasy. The front gate, as she had known previously, was being defended by the animated golems they had all seen and heard about. What worried her, however, was that there was seemingly no force behind the gate ready to reinforce the wall garrison. Unlike what she had told Sulu, the main force of the defending army was practically right smack in front of the second gate, which would have allowed the Imperial forces to gather themselves and maneuver as necessary before ever coming into contact with the enemy.

This was wrong. Something was definitely wrong with the entire situation. It was as if the enemy had full confidence that the Imperial forces would not be able to cross the gate, and from what she had seen, whoever was in control here had been very careful indeed.

This carelessness, on the other hand, simply threw her off. What had changed between the first day of the siege and today? Ginny let her eyes roam all across the walls that bordered the gate in an effort to find some anomaly in the enemy formations.

"Your Grace?" repeated the assassin closest to her. Without realizing it, Ginny had failed to answer her subordinate's question the first time around.

Shaking her head to regain focus, Ginny turned it slightly to address the assassin in question. "Something is wrong. The enemy formations make no sense," she told them briefly. "I'm trying to see if there are any unaccountable anomalies in the enemy formations that would explain this strange phenomenon."

The assassins behind her all nodded in understanding, and at least two joined her at her sides to help her scout out the enemy units on top of the walls. They remained so for a good twenty minutes before the man on her left shot out his arm and pointed towards the southern end of the wall.

"There!" he cried softly. "Where the wall molds into the mountain! Do you see it?"

Ginny squinted her eyes in that direction, as did the others in the group. "The silver glint?" she asked as she noted the location.

The assassin nodded. "There are three more such glints along the wall," he told them as he pointed out the three other locations. "I can't tell for sure, but they look like mechanical devices."

Ginny considered the guess with great focus. If that was true, then the three devices were having some sort of an effect on the defending forces at the wall which had made them retreat their main force away from the front gate. A sudden, terrible idea came to her mind, and her already pale complexion went even whiter as the ramifications of said idea hit her. But first, she had to make sure she wasn't being paranoid.

She quickly pointed out two of the assassins. "You two, make your way to the end of this path and find out if there are similar devices on our side of the wall!" she hissed out. "Go!"

Immediately and silently, the two assassins jumped over her and their other two comrades and made their way down the path towards its exit, always ensuring to remain absolutely quiet and inconspicuous. The remaining eight assassins turned towards Ginny curiously.

"What are you thinking, Your Grace?" asked one of them—the one to her right.

Ginny shrugged. "At the moment, nothing. But if they find what I hope they don't find, then we're going to have to change our mission parameters _before_ the Imperial forces capture the gate," she told them seriously. "Worst case scenario, Hogwarts Valley becomes impenetrable."

The Duchess' grim prediction hit the men beside her rather hard. The mentioned scenario was an admission of total defeat for the otherwise unstoppable Imperial Army, and none of them wanted to even consider what the consequences would bring onto the Empire.

"Is there something specific we should prepare ourselves to do, Your Grace?" asked the same assassin as before.

Ginny nodded. "Prepare to defuse _very_ sensitive explosives," she told them flatly before giving them a reluctant and gloomy look. "And, if that's not possible, prepare yourselves to give your lives for the Empire."

"Your Grace?" asked one of the remaining assassins in shock.

Ginny gave them a no-nonsense look. "We are all here assassins. We know that one day, we will have to die, just as we met out death to the Empire's enemies. That being said, while we usually would die during a failed mission, here we must prepare ourselves to give our lives to ensure that the lives of thousands of others are kept safe from harm. If the explosives cannot be defused, I want you all to try to carry one out of range from the mountain and ensure that it explodes safely out of the Imperial Army's way."

She didn't have to see beneath the assassins' hoods to know they had paled considerably at her orders. No soldier of the Empire ever willingly _chose_ to die when they were equally presented with a choice that allowed them to live, so having their superior explicitly tell them that they could probably have to die willingly, even if it was for the sake of others, shook them terribly.

None of them were cowards—that was not the question. The problem was that they were also, for the most part, family men and women. All of them had a _lot_ to lose, and none of them were all that eager to part with the people and things they had left behind in Harrisburg. Even if assassins had a potential death rate per mission of 75%, that was still 25% chance that they would survive and come home to their families if they took care of themselves.

As her orders were sinking into the assassins, Ginny kept her eyes fixed on the end of the path below. She avidly awaited for either confirmation or denial of her fears from her two scouts, and every passing second was another second the rest of the team used to gather their doubts about the soundness of her orders. She personally disliked the situation as well, and also had a _lot_ to lose—her daughter, her husband, her family, etc...—but she knew when sacrifice was needed, and that was unfortunately right now, if her fears proved correct.

Almost by mental summons, she saw the two scouts appear once again at the path exit. The two were sprinting towards her as they had been taught—light-footed and silent. Even in the middle of her despondent thoughts, Ginny couldn't help but feel a little bit of pride at the training the assassins went through—many of which's aspects had been designed with her consultation.

The two assassins quickly took a knee before her own kneeling position and gave the coded hand signal that would prove their identities. Once she replied in kind, they were quick to report. The one on the left went first.

"We can confirm that the northern edge of the wall also possesses the strange devices spotted on the southern end," said a female voice smoothly, before her partner took over the report.

"We can also confirm that there are six, not three, devices on each end. They seem lightly guarded. In fact, the whole wall seems devoid of the numbers previously seen manning them," reported the male assassin.

Ginny looked grim. "That's because they don't intend to put up any more than a token defense, in order to lure us in," she told them, her tone matching the look on her face. "It's a trap. The moment the Imperial Army takes the walls, or even has a section of it cross over, the devices—which I'm assuming are explosives—will detonate and probably attempt to bury the gate in the consequential rockslide. Whoever is on the enemy's side of the gate will be trapped, and our side of the wall will be impenetrable. Or, if we do manage to get through, it won't be but for another few months, since all of it will have to be done without the use of artillery, due to the wards."

Understanding flooded the minds of Ginny's teammates, as they now understood why she had felt the need to tell them of the possibility of their own deaths. If the devices were not taken care of, then thousand of Imperial soldiers would perish under the rockslide or at the hands of the enemy on the other side. That was simply unacceptable.

Ginny looked at her teammates seriously. "I'm going to give you all just one chance," she stated. "Whoever isn't ready to give up their lives for the Empire, go back to the camp and tell General Sulu what the situation is," she offered. "Everyone else, you had better get your mind set to this, because if we can't defuse the devices, we need to clear them out of the area, or at least minimize the blast damage as much as possible."

Ginny took a deep breath. "I cannot stress enough how important this is," she told them. "Leaving the situation as is and continuing with our original mission is now unacceptable. We cannot, in good conscience, leave our brothers and sisters of Britannia," she borrowed the terms from Harry's own speeches, "to die, when we could have made a difference and saved them. So, once again, who will accompany me to do our duty, and who will go back to the camp to warn them of the impending danger, in the hope that even if we fail, our brethren will have evacuated themselves from the area?"

All ten of her teammates were predictably silent now, and Ginny knew she could not rush them. They had to make this choice on their own, and any push she tried to give them could maybe force them into a hasty decision that they could possibly not carry out later on. Behind her, she could hear the sounds of battle still raging on, and that apparently served as enough of a reminder of the urgency of their situation to make the assassins decide.

Nine of them vowed to follow her. Only one decided to turn back, although the man had a shameful look on his face as he confessed his reluctance to follow them. Ginny understood. Even if her own will was set to carry out her duty, she couldn't help but feel overpowering despair at the idea of losing her daughter, husband, and extended family.

With a final nod, she saw the assassin leave back the way he came, while the remaining nine stared at her stonily. They were not pleased with their situation, but they would also not falter. Not now. Giving them a grateful look, Ginny pulled her hood a little lower, trying to cover as much of her face as possible.

"All of you who have stayed, you have my thanks," she told her men sincerely. "Are you ready?"

There was no pause in their response, this time around. All nine assassins before her nodded firmly. Giving her own firm nod of acknowledgement, she turned on her heel and promptly launched herself forward, her men right behind.

Do or die, they would fulfill their mission.

_

* * *

_

_Hogwarts Flanking Attack..._

Neville grunted as he pulled himself up a few more feet. He was not used to this type of exertion, and neither were most of his men. Not even the First Company of the Second Legion seemed able to endure the mountainous climb. Yet, that being said, none of them stopped in their ascent. Even if their muscles screamed out in pain, the Imperial forces kept their climb steady, even as they carried their gear on their backs.

Neville was, of course, at the highest point of the column, having persuaded his people that he would always be at the forefront of the attack, even if it included climbing up a mountain. His face was contorted into a fierce grimace as he felt his muscles straining to keep up with his untrained pace. He had droplets of sweat converging into many running streaks all over his face, and his hands were getting red and raw from the friction of the rope. Someone had suggested enchanting the rope in order to avoid this, but Neville had reminded them that doing so would have eliminated the necessary friction for them to even get a grip on it.

Neville was nothing if not bullheaded, though, and kept going even as every inch of him begged him to stop and get a breather. But no breather was to come, as Neville himself could hear the sounds of battle coming from the direction of the front gates. He knew Sulu was in the midst of his newest attack on the gate, and thus this was the best time for Neville to get his men to the top, as the enemy would be distracted by the vastly more dangerous main army. Neville briefly allowed himself to glance down towards the rest of his men. They seemed just as tired as he felt, if not more.

Gritting his teeth and returning his attention to his task, Neville gave out a low grunt as he pulled himself even higher.

"Come on, men! Climb!" he roared, the wind currents thankfully making sure that no one on top of the cliff would hear him. "Britons are dying! Climb!"

His words had the desired effect of putting some fire into the men's spirits, and the climbing rate jumped by a few feet per minute. Neville himself was rising at surprising speed despite his tiredness. By all accounts, his physique should not have been able to handle this lengthy a climb without having had to stop at some point, especially at the speed they were going.

Barely an hour had passed since they had begun their ascent, and they were more than halfway up the cliff side—an impressive feat for the mix-matched remains of his column. He had men and women from the Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh, and Twelfth Legions, as well as the First Company of the Second Legion in its entirety. All in all, a motley crew—but one that was distinguishing itself extraordinarily so far. Perhaps it was the urgency of the situation, perhaps it was the adrenaline coursing through their veins. Whatever it was, Neville hoped that it would keep coming until the battle ended, lest his men lose the fire that seemed to possess them at this moment.

Little bits of rocks fell past him as his grip dislodged fragments of broken sediment with each grab, but Neville paid it little to no heed. There was a war going on—the enemy was unlikely to hear anything over the sound of explosions. Once, he thought his grip would falter as the piece of outcropping seemed to waver between breaking and not, but to his relief, the rock had stayed firm. Underneath him, however, Neville heard someone grumble irritably as a piece of loose rock smacked him in the forehead. Neville couldn't help the grin and look down to apologize. It was so rare for these sort of odd, humorous moments to appear that he _had_ to give it proper recognition.

"Sorry!" he whispered down to the grumbling soldier, who merely glared up at his commander. News of the incident spread fast amongst the climbing troops, and more than one soldier chuckled under their breath at the occurrence.

The moment soon passed, however, and the group of soldiers resumed their ascent with their infused vigor.

Another hour had to pass before the remains of the Imperial flanking column finally reached the top of the cliff. By the time they had, however, they were almost all exhausted beyond movement. Neville, who had been the first to reach the top, was barely rallying enough inner willpower to keep standing upright. From the pained look on his face and the wobbliness of his legs, it was clear that he wouldn't be on his feet for much longer. His hands were red and raw, and just the cool breeze against them on top of the cliff seemed to make the Brigadier flinch in pain.

How on earth were they supposed to fight the enemy now?

Neville seemed to have realised this dilemma, because his eyes were swinging every which way, scouting out places for his men to rest in without giving themselves away once daylight broke. He had not factored the sheer exhaustion his men would be feeling once they had finished the climb in his plans, and he was now paying for it dearly.

"Ten percent," Neville suddenly said under his breath, in between panting breaths.

On the floor near him, one of his remaining officer corps looked at him oddly. "Ten percent what, sir?" he asked curiously.

Neville almost jumped, having been distracted by his thoughts and unaware that he had spoken out loud. "Eh?" he asked smartly, before processing the posed question. "Oh, ten percent efficiency. It's an old Chinese method used around the end of the second century," he explained. "It's so we can calculate how well we'll do in battle. Ten percent means we're screwed, by the way," he added sardonically. "unless I can find us a place to rest without getting caught out in the open in the morning."

Not that the current state of affairs didn't reveal them enough as it was. Between the assault on the main gate, the heavy artillery support of the former, and the Royal Navy bombing the main gate's rear flank wards, the sky was lit up to the point that daylight would have had no effect on the lighting.

That, of course, meant that unless Neville could find his 2,000 odd troops safe haven within the next few minutes, they would probably be found by the enemy, and his men were in no condition to fight back emotionless, tireless golems. His expression was grim, but also one unwilling to give up.

Apparently, to reward this show of bullheaded determination, Fate seemed to have decided to grant Neville his desire. His eyes, wandering as they were in growing panic, finally settled on what looked like a small path that went down on the other side of the cliff. Wobbling his way towards the inconspicuous path, he felt a growing sense of elation as he saw it head down along the cliff to what seemed to be an opening in the side of the cliff. Forcing himself to move, he slowly made his way to the opening and found, to his joy, that the crevasse was in fact a cave. From the looks of it, it had been carved into the mountain by magic, but abandoned for some reason or another. It was certainly large enough to host most of his men, and since he had barely expended any magic this day, he could use what little strength he had left to expand it so that they could all rest in here. An obscuring charm would take care of any daylight dragon patrols, too.

Wobbling his way back to the top of the cliff where his men waited for their Brigadier to return, he quickly waved at them to get their attention and made a motion for them to follow. He could practically hear the inaudible groans as the men forced themselves on their feet and trudged their way towards him. While he waited, Neville pondered on the presence of the cave on the side of the cliff.

He did not recall it from his Hogwarts days, and he had visited the cliff often enough, especially once Harry and the Royal Northern Army had shown up and set camp there. Plus, from the feel of the residual magic in the cave, the cavern had been dug out much more recently than that. Neville doubted that Voldemort had done it, since it would serve no purpose.

Yet again wobbling over to the cavern, Neville examined the cave more in depth. It was big—that, there was no doubt of. And considering the inconspicuous path that led to it, he had to assume that it had not been meant for the general public to know. The magic involved in its creation seemed powerful, too, yet not dark or ancient—so that ruled out the Founders or Voldemort.

"What's a hideout doing here?"

Neville nearly jumped from the suddenness of the question, and whirled around to see Emily Murphy, the Irish-born private from the Second Legion's First Company who had scaled the cliff ahead of all of them to scout it out. Neville, however, was more focused on her question.

"What are you talking about?" he asked quickly, suddenly disregarding his own tiredness and feeling a sense of alertness he hadn't felt since he'd begun the climb. "How do you know this is a hideout?"

Emily blinked at her commanding officer blankly before flushing red in embarrassment and then quickly answering. "Well...it's not actually _called_ a hideout..." she mumbled, before speaking up. "It's actually called a...what was it? Ah! A Sicherer Hafen!" she exclaimed, remembering the term.

Neville blinked. Was that...German?

Emily grinned. "It means 'safe haven' in German. Grindelwald's forces had a lot of these built near the end of the war in order to safely retreat their forces out of sight and then launch unexpected counterattacks," she explained. "My grandfather was a wizard who fought during the war, and he found tons of these," she said, before giving the cavern a critical eye. "Whoever made this one, though, hadn't had much practice..."

Neville blinked again. He then looked around before returning a confused gaze at Emily, barely noticing the file of weary troops plodding into the cavern and slumping against the walls or on the ground.

"Isn't this just a normal cave?" he asked uncertainly.

Emily gave the cavern another once-over before shaking her head. "Nope. It's a Hafen, alright," she declared certainly. She pointed to a section of rock near the entrance to the cave. "Look over there, about two feet off the ground."

Neville glanced at Emily skeptically but went over anyway, deciding to humor the girl. Once there, he took a knee and examined the rock wall, expecting to find nothing. Yet, to his surprise, exactly where Emily pointed at was a barely noticeable symbol carved smoothly into the wall. It looked like a triangle enclosing a circle split in half by a vertical line.

"Anyone who's read up on Grindelwald will tell you that's his sign," Emily told him as she walked over to him and leaned down to look for herself, having deduced that he had found it. "Do you recognize it?" she asked.

Neville couldn't believe it, but he did. He was a pureblood, after all, and he had been told the stories when he was younger by his Grandmother. It was well known amongst those ancient families that still held some respect for some of the older traditions.

"The Deathly Hallows," he whispered, tracing his finger over the symbol.

Emily nodded. "My grandfather was the last of the Proctor family," she told him. Anyone with basic understanding of the history of Magical Britain knew that the Proctor family had once been a large, influential clan of magic users centered in Cornwall. "He married my gran, and had a single daughter—my mother."

Well, that explained the end of the Proctor line, figured Neville. "He told you the stories, then?" he asked.

Emily nodded. "Fairy tales, all of it," she judged without batting an eyelash. "Even if the Hallows _were_ real, I doubt they'd be anything more than remarkable works of magical artisanship," she opined, before digressing back to the initial topic. "Anyway, whoever made this cavern either fought in that war, or knows more about Grindelwald than the books say, because I know for a fact that no one ever included the Sicherer Hafen in the books—just so no one else could get influenced by the idea."

Neville glanced up at Emily before returning his sight to the symbol. Off the top of his head, there was only one person who could have been as intimately knowledgeable of Grindelwald's battlefield tactics.

"Dumbledore did this," he stated out loud, surprising his subordinate.

"Dumbledore? As in, Albus Dumbledore, the Queen's advisor?" asked Emily for clarification.

Neville nodded. "The same. Although he's not exactly the Queen's advisor right now—he disappeared right after the battle at Harrisburg," observed Neville as he got to his feet. "Though it shouldn't surprise me he created this cave. He _had_ to have fought the Death Eaters after the central government fell. This was probably made to give his people either a place to escape to or fight from."

Emily nodded. "Well, if that's true, then this place probably has a backdoor exit."

Neville started at this revelation. "A backdoor?"

Emily nodded once again. "If the way in is the same as the way out, can you imagine how easy it would have been to take these places down during the war? The Sicherer Hafen were so dangerous _because_ the entryway was much different from the exit. From what grandad told me, the Hafen in Saxony were particularly nasty because they were all interconnected with a central base underground, so Grindelwald's men were able to move from one Hafen to the other without much trouble."

Neville nodded, appreciating the tactical benefits of such a layout. While it made finding the central base easy, it also meant just as easy redeployment of defending troops. It was an ingenious ploy. "So there should be a similar path somewhere in this cave?" he asked, noticing that the amount of men trailing in was decreasing, meaning that they were all almost inside. That surprised the Brigadier a bit—it meant Dumbledore had also added expansion charms to the cave.

Emily nodded, looking around for the ideal place for such an entrance. "It's likely either charmed to look inconspicuous, or it really is. Likely, it's at the back of this Hafen, but if it's the work of Dumbledore as you say, then he might have gone with a horizontal variation of the Hafen."

"A what?"

Emily smirked at her superior for a split second before remembering her own place in military hierarchy. "A horizontal variation of the Sicherer Hafen. Instead of having the hidden path at the back of the cave, two paths are placed at the sides. It doubles the amount of troops that can flow into the cave, and can additionally increase the amount of places the troops can come _from_."

"And where would this path lead us to?" Neville asked, his voice softer now as he noticed the majority of his men sleeping off their lack of energy.

Emily didn't respond immediately, but Neville could see in her eyes that she had a good idea of where the secret passage would go to.

"Most likely?" she asked. Neville nodded. "Hogwarts Castle."

* * *

_Edge of the Hogwarts Grounds Wards_

The sight of over a dozen Airships hovering just before the Hogwarts wards was a mighty thing to behold. Each of the monstrous flying machines was positively covered in weaponry, and seemed anxious to partake in the battle that their brethren on the ground were participating in.

Yet here they hovered, patient.

At the very front of the array of ships was the _HMAS Invincible_, the Imperial Airfleet's de facto flagship. Indomitable and majestic, it too shared the anxiety to go into battle, but could not due to the heavy anti-technological wards that would shut it down the moment it tried to pass through.

Of course, they had nonetheless found a way through.

At the very forefront of the _Invincible_, a platform had been erected at the tip of the ship's bow. On it were three people, two of which seemed to be shivering from the heavy winds blowing against them at this altitude, while the third was seemingly relaxed, a wand in his hand and his red hair billowing in its ponytail behind him.

Bill Weasley smiled serenely as he rose both his wand hand and his free hand, taking a pose not unlike that of a conductor about to perform a concert. With a motion of his free hand, he also waved over one of the two shivering figures—a silver-blonde woman of ethereal beauty, while the remaining figure, a stern-looking man in an Imperial Admiral's uniform simply pulled his windbreaker closer to himself.

"And now," he announced, Fleur taking her place beside him, wand in hand and in a similar pose, "for the next six hours, we will begin the destruction of the Hogwarts Grounds Anti-Technological Ward."

* * *

_From "A Complete Guide to the Imperial Armed Forces," by J.J. Silverson_

_Chapter X: "The First Ten"_

"_Like the history of the Legions previously discussed implies, a single company of the First Six Legions was a prized commodity to any Imperial commander. However, even within these Legions, an unofficial hierarchy was established to denote the skill level and renown of the companies. For this reason, the First Six, to this day, continue the tradition of the First Ten—creatively enough, the first ten companies of any of the Founding Legions._

_...As the name implies, the First Ten are the numerically lowest companies of the Legion they are in. However, membership in these legendary companies is only possible via veteran status within the Legion as a whole. No new recruit has ever, in the history of the First Six, gone into the First Ten from the get go. Recruits for these companies are picked out of the remaining Legionary companies, and only then only the best of the veterans._

_Members of the First Ten are not just proficient in combat. Depending on the role of the Legion, or the commander at their helm, the First Ten have been known to also include many future strategists or SpecOps legends..."_


	41. Chapter XXXIV: Murphy's Law

_Hogwarts Siege, Day 2 – Hogwarts Main Gate Offensive_

In a word, the fight for control over the Hogwarts main gate was one big clusterfuck.

The Imperial forces, finally managing to surprise the defenders and set up their ladders, had nonetheless barely managed to do anything more than establish a foothold on the walls themselves. Even with the Third and Fourth Companies of the Second Legion leading, and even with the introduction of the shotguns to help take down the hardy golem defenders, the Imperial forces soon found themselves trying to push at an immoveable brick wall.

No matter how many shotgun blasts they let loose on the cluster of defenders, it always seemed like there were more coming right after them, or that they just wouldn't stay down. The Third Company, however, had managed to distinguish themselves in their wing of the assault, having taken no losses despite being at the forefront of the offensive and all the while managing to secure their foothold long enough for the Seventh Legion to deploy adequate forces to back them up.

The leader of the Third Company was a black-haired, dark brown-eyed man named Allan Moore from what had formerly been Alberta, Canada. Before the war, Allan had been a carpenter who'd made his living helping folks in his town. At the outbreak of the war, he and essentially his whole town had fled eastward, towards Ottawa, believing the capital city to be the most heavily defended location in Canada.

Only when news of the fall of Ottawa had reached them did he and his fellow townsfolk decide on seeking refuge in the mountainous ranges of British Columbia. That was where they had heard of convoys of refugees being set up in Vancouver, and so they fled there, hoping to get passage to the havens where the other refugees seemed to be going.

It was also there that he had been drafted by the man who had taken charge of protecting the refugee convoys. A Captain Lee, as it were. An unwilling soldier, Allan was nonetheless well aware of the need to protect the other refugees and did his part without much resentment and reluctance. Eventually, the convoy—some 10,000 or so refugees on any number of different ships—set sail for Australia, where they found the war raging just as fiercely as it had been in Canada.

Only, when they reached Australia, his _captain_ had _then_ been drafted in turn by the man leading the Pacific resistance to the Death Eaters and their lackeys—the then-Captain Tybalt Staples. Allan had since served under the dubiously infamous command of the Pacific's very own Davy Jones, until the Restoration.

Once the Restoration came about, Allan was then assigned to the Second Legion, which had been designed to hold the very best of Staples' troops. Since most of these had also been veterans of many sieges and city assaults, they were also a highly capable anti-siege force. That had basically secured their label as the "Siege Breaker" Legion.

Yet, this one siege was proving to be either the Second Legion's grave, or its finest hour.

Allan had, as ordered, led his men forward the moment General Sulu had given the order to do so, the Seventh Legion trailing behind his own men. The Seventh had offered to hold the siege ladders, but Allan would have heard none of it, and had his own men carry the five siege ladders, never once slowing down due to weight.

Allan was a veteran now. He had fought in so many battlefields, lifted so many sieges, stormed so many emplacements, this felt like breathing to him. He had his best men at the forefront, ready to scale the walls as soon as possible, their distinct black uniform and body armour melding in with the darkness and keeping them from sight.

The initial assault pretty much went as Allan had expected it. They had managed to get the ladders against the wall and had begun their ascent when the defenders had noticed their attack and had begun firing down at them. Fortunately, the Second Legion had suffered through enough sieges to know better than to send uncovered soldiers up siege ladders, and had as such issued small, meter-wide circular shields that deployed out of a cylindrical baton that they all carried at their waist. With the help of these metallic shields, the men and women of the Third Company had managed to reach the top and begin securing the immediate area.

It was about the time that the Seventh Legion had managed to get five platoons on the wall that Allan had lost his first soldier in the battle—a young Private from Cork, Ireland named Thomas. He had taken a killing spell between the eyes after having just managed to deflect another with his portable shield. Allan could hear the indignant cries from his men as they saw the young Irishman fall, almost in slow motion, his eyes lifeless.

The next to fall, at the thirteenth platoon over the wall, was Private Jenny Welsh, from New Zealand. She took a slashing curse to the torso and yet managed to take down a dozen more golems before finally succumbing to blood loss and ending up nearly slashed to pieces against the wall's merlons.

An hour into the battle, Allan had lost nearly a dozen more soldiers, which was rapidly making the even-tempered Captain red-faced with fury. Each man or woman lost was a physical blow to him. The Second Legion companies had long since learned to enhance the bond between its soldiers to near-familial levels, and he often regarded the people under his command as his own family, given that he had no family of his own outside the military.

A flash of green was enough warning for the aged veteran to duck, allowing the Killing Curse to fly overhead harmlessly. A dull thud told him that another golem had caught it, which suited the Captain just fine. Bringing up his left arm, he proceeded to ram his protective shield against the offending golem's throat, correctly guessing that its small diameter would also be a weak spot, albeit a more difficult one to aim at. The shield predictably crushed the golem's neck and eventually tore after Allan had placed enough pressure into his blow. The sound of heavy footsteps behind him got his reflexes working and, in an instant, he had his right arm up, shotgun in hand, and had blown away the incoming golem's head.

Allan kicked away the falling corpse of the golem in question and reflexively ducked under a cutting curse that would have otherwise sliced his head in two. Just as he was about to blast the offending defender away with his shotgun, however, one of his troopers, having seen her Captain in danger, promptly took it upon herself to do it for him. Allan bowed his head shortly in gratitude, and she returned the sign of respect before the two turned once again to their knife work.

Allan took down five more golems in the next ten minutes after that near miss, and the 3rd Company's Captain was beginning to tire out. Having kept count of his kills since the assault began, he had taken down at least 30 or so golems by himself, with another 15 assists from his comrades. If he extrapolated similar kill counts for his remaining men, that meant 7,000 or so enemy dead after a few hours of combat.

And yet, the damned things kept coming!

Allan was unable to check whether or not this was due to outside reinforcements, unfortunately; the enemy between him and a clear view of the grounds blocked his view. Every time he tried to move forward with his men, the golems seemed to increase in numbers, too!

Allan didn't even start when something collided with his back, the sudden warmth telling him that it was another soldier. A glance behind him told him it was one of his men, and that the soldier was defending himself/herself from incoming spells in front of him/her.

"Captain!" Allan recognized the accented voice as belonging to one Corporal Maria Lopez, from Belize. She belonged to and led his Company's 12th Squad. "The Seventh boys are quickly running out of steam, and it looks like a couple of our squads aren't looking so hot, either!"

Allan grunted in acknowledgement. "I know," he still said out loud. "We can't slow down, though. Keep the men busy and don't let these murdering sons of bitches close to our inbound points!" he ordered.

He didn't need to see the nod of agreement to know it'd been given, and he quickly felt the warmth of her body heat leave him, telling him she'd left to carry out his orders. Allan gritted his teeth and grunted as he savaged an oncoming golem, its heavy, steel-like fists held high, ready to hit him, with his personal shield, slamming the edge into the construct's face and following up with a point-blank shotgun blast to the thing's chest. Strong point or not, it didn't look like the golems could handle a blast at point blank range _anywhere_, and that was the good news.

Nonetheless, that was another round used up, and Allan was aware that his ammo reserves were rapidly depleting as this fight kept going. No doubt his men had already noticed as well. Digging into one of his many, many ammo pouches strapped onto him, Allan dug out a handful of shotgun shells and quickly pumped them into the automatic recharger.

Pumping the metallic, stick-like weapon of death and destruction, Allan blasted away two more golems who had sought to beat him to death while he was reloading his weapons. Unfortunately for them, Allan had been quicker and had been ready for them before they had taken their second step. They _might_ have had a chance if they'd cast a spell against him, since he needed both hands to reload, leaving him open.

After blasting away five more foes, something odd clicked in Allan's mind.

_'How is it that we're nearly a thousand troops on this wall and there's still room for this many enemies??'_ he wondered. _No matter how you look at it, our previous assault told us that the walls were no more than ten meters wide!'_

Even considering the length of the wall, there was no way that a thousand Imperial troopers could fit onto the wall and _still_ have enough space for more than ten thousand enemy troops, considering the amount that he and his men had already taken down—Seventh Legion kills notwithstanding.

The obvious answer hit him then.

"Fuck!" he swore vehemently. Cursing that the anti-technological wards hadn't yet been taken down, Allan turned towards the nearest of his men in the hopes of getting the message passed around. "Private!" he roared, causing the private in question to look his way once his latest kill stopped moving on the ground. "Pass the word: we're in an Illusionary Trap!"

Though the private made no overt signs of shock, Allan knew his men well enough to see the unconscious twitch in the soldier's shoulders that belied how shaken the man was from the Captain's revelation. Illusionary Traps were easy enough to take down, as long as you weren't already caught in one. Still, it explained the inexplicable waves of enemy reinforcements.

This left a problem, though. Communication with elements outside the Illusion bubble was impossible, which meant that while he and his men fought infinite enemies, not knowing which Killing Curse was real and which wasn't, the outside world had to figure out their predicament and disable the trap soon, before exhaustion brought down the Imperial troops.

Steeling himself for the exhaustive combat to follow, Allan brought up his shield and shotgun, and prepped himself for battle even as ten more golems bore down on him.

* * *

_Hogwarts Main Gates Offensive – Rear of Main Gate_

Ginny rose her fist to halt her group's advance, and the ten assassins broke their movement hard.

Ginny made another motion, and the ten assassins took cover behind a few bushes next to the wall. A pair of golems soon passed by, and once they were out of hearing range (or what she guessed was their hearing range), Ginny turned to her team.

"Okay, we're almost there. Everyone knows their target, right?"

The assassins nodded. Ten agents for six bombs. Ginny had claimed one, and she had assigned another to the strongest of the team—an assassin who loved to use his bare fists for his work more than his tools. If he was unable to defuse the bomb, then he would be able to carry it out of the danger zone, hopefully. The remaining four bombs were to be dealt with by groups of two assassins each.

Ginny dug into her camouflage robes and quickly brought out her wand, her assassins following her example by doing the same. "Check for traps," she whisper-ordered them, and all ten cast the detection spell at the same time. While it was technically unnecessary for that many detection spells to be used, it was a point of safety for the assassins to do so in order to double-check their results, just in case someone botched the spell.

As expected, each of them had a circular, hologram-like image show up atop the length of their wand, small blips appearing spread throughout the circle's confines.

"I read five _Bombarda_ traps and two Illusion traps," reported Ginny, taking the lead.

"Same," confirmed another assassin, and none of the rest seemed to protest the findings.

"Illusion traps have been tripped, though," noted one of the assassins. "Both of them are on the wall."

Ginny nodded, agreeing with the observation. "That's probably the vanguard of the assault. They must not have Shielders with them, for some reason," Ginny swore under her breath—another complication! Narrowing her eyes at her men, she quickly pointed out a group of two. "You two, disable the southern trap before you go for the bomb," she ordered, before pointing out another group of two. "You two, get the northern. We have to get our people out of those traps, or they'll be too exhausted to fight the main enemy army."

The assassins nodded respectfully at her orders, and with a quick nod in return, Ginny waited until she was sure the coast was clear before whispering the urgent command, "Ok...break!"

Funnelling her magic to her extremities, she strongly pushed her feet down onto the ground and then launched herself into the air, only barely noticing her assassins imitating her and going their own ways.

Satisfied that they had all dispersed without difficulty, Ginny returned her attention to her target: the middle bomb on the northern wall. She would have personally taken care of the Illusionary trap there, but seeing as how she was tackling this bomb by herself, she needed to make sure she had enough time to get it out of range, if necessary. Magically powered up or not, those damn things looked heavy, and her magically enhanced musculature could only handle so much strain before she suffered severe cascading muscular deterioration, which wouldn't stop until her muscles became useless permanently.

Magical enhancement was a risky thing whenever used for long periods of time, so Ginny knew better than to strain herself usually. This mission, however, could very well require her to ignore those safety rules and risk either being crippled for life or killed. The former didn't bother her as much as the latter, given that she now knew, for sure, that her husband would not leave her for another woman, no matter the circumstances.

Steeling her will once again, Ginny looked down, her body still in flight, and quickly locked on to the location of her target. At the very end of the wall, she could see the distinct, egg-shaped magical device that held about five highly compressed _Bombarda_ spells—enough to cause a significant dent in the side of the mountain. Together, they would bring down the side of the mountain onto the gate, crushing the advancing Imperial troops and sealing off the valley from that side for good.

She nearly closed her eyes as she focused on her magic to reduce her overall mass and then letting loose several, silent blasts that allowed her to drift towards her objective silently. Ginny knew she wasn't as powerful as Harry was—hell, possibly only Dumbledore and Voldemort were as powerful as her husband was—but she was living proof that power was not enough to win. Technique, skill, expertise—these synonymous words were the basis of Ginny's prowess in battle. She had refined her control of her magic to unheard-of heights, making her a deadly enemy even for Dumbledore, although she had much less magic to use.

It was this advanced expertise with her magic that allowed Ginny to emit controlled blasts of magic from anywhere on her body and reduce her mass, both overall or location-specific. There wasn't a drop of magic in her that she didn't know about or couldn't control. Even Harry, with all his titanic power, could not boast the same.

Ginny smiled to herself in satisfaction as she noted that her calculated bursts were taking her straight to her target as planned. It had been a long time since she had last needed to make correction bursts, but that didn't preclude the possibility that she could miscalculate in the future.

Slightly increasing her mass, she felt her descent increase proportionally, and within seconds, she had reached ground, albeit it at such a slow speed that she was able to touch ground daintily, as if descending from a carriage. A successful infiltration, all around.

Her silent arrival had made the two golem guards that were protecting her target completely miss her presence, which suited the ginger-haired assassin just fine. Silently making her way towards their turned backs, she withheld her breath as she raised her arms and, with a flick of her wrists, two retractable blades shot out from within her robe sleeves, making a familiar, unmistakable unsheathing sound.

The two golems, finally aware of her presence, began to turn around to confront her, but it was already too late for them. With a glint of sunlight splashing off the two stainless blades, Ginny rammed them into the golems' throats, successfully piercing them. She knew that it wouldn't be enough, though. They weren't human—a hole in the throat would do nothing to their fighting skill.

Tearing off their heads, on the other hand, was just fine.

Channelling her magic to her arms, she increased her muscular strength there fourfold, giving her about as much strength as necessary to be able to punch through concrete (not that she ever would—it would shatter every bone in her hand without the proper magical enhancements). With a grunt, she then proceeded to swing her arms sideways in opposite directions, tearing through the steel-like skin as though it was tissue paper. Dull thuds accompanied the sight of the two lifeless heads hitting the ground.

Ginny observed her work for a second before flicking her wrists again and thus retracting her blades back into the cover of her robes. With a thought, she also dispelled the muscular enhancement she had placed on her arms, and flinched when she felt the strain in her muscles finally hitting her in a vicious feedback. It was an unfortunate side-effect of using these spells, especially when one increased the muscular output several times over what one's body frame should allow. Grimacing, Ginny knew she would be feeling the muscular pain for a good couple of days to come, unless she used the enhancements again, which would guarantee her a week of rest after the battle was over, if not more.

She knew how to deal with the pain, though—after all, this wasn't the first time she had used enhancements in such a way. She reached into her robes and pulled out a plastic container tube from between her breasts and popped a pill contained within, almost immediately feeling the pain vanish from her extremities. It would only kill the pain for about twelve hours, but the feedback afterwards would be excruciating, to be sure. Unfortunately, this was a necessary trade-off, as she had a mission to carry out now, and she wasn't willing for a second to throw in the towel.

Hiding away the tube back in the safety between her breasts, she made her way towards the egg-shaped bomb. It was a bit bigger than she had thought, having seen it from high above. It was tall enough to reach her waist, and long enough to just beat her height. She toyed with the idea of casting a weight-identifying spell on it, but decided not to, just in case there were magical safeguards to make it explode in the event of magical tampering.

Instead, she settled for sliding her hand along the smooth metal casing of the bomb, marvelling despite herself at the fact that the enemy had managed to put aside their prejudice for all things non-magic and create such a lethal piece of weaponry. Soon enough, she found what she was looking for: a section of the smooth metal skin was sectioned off from the rest in a rectangular shape. Had she used her eyes, she would have undoubtedly failed to notice this sectioned-off area, but her bare hand, its sensory ability heightened by magic, had managed to feel the small, nearly imperceptible crease between the metal cover and the rest of the bomb's casing.

Pressing down slightly on the middle of the plate, she felt it give way under very little pressure and then slide to the side into the rest of the casing. Revealed to her was a truly marvellous sight to behold, for one who practised magic with such skill as she did. Where a mechanical bomb would have had controls and all sorts of mechanical instruments to monitor the bomb, this one had currents of magic flowing within the cavity as though it were water. There were no instruments, no gauges—nothing. It was just pure magic, reddish-copper in color, just floating there. She could see strands of the ethereal-like substance undulate around as it moved its crests and troughs from one side to the other.

In short, it was a beautiful sight.

And yet, Ginny knew better than to get caught up in the mere looks of the magical feat before her. No matter how much she wanted to examine the magical configuration that the caster had used to create such a magnificent magical interface, she knew she had to act quick if she wanted to disarm the bomb, lest the Imperial troops recover from the Illusion Trap and get within the detonation parameters of the bomb.

Ginny softly placed her hand into the magical energy and almost immediately felt a warm, enveloping sensation overtake her hand before she gasped and snapped back her head, the air before her suddenly exploding with magically summoned statistics regarding the bomb. By just placing her hand in the magical energy, she had somehow brought out the entire system's magical interface. A feeling of disappointment spread through Ginny. Despite the wonderful ingeniousness of the device, it was clear that whoever had actually done the programming was an amateur. There was little to no security in the device's magical computer.

Sighing in resignation at an easy task, Ginny brought forward in her mind the thought of the detonation parameters. As she thought, the bombs wouldn't detonate due to proximity of magical signatures—only non-magical creatures, such as the bulk of the Imperial troops. It would make sure that the Imperial casualty count would be as high as possible this way. Furthermore, as she had suspected, there were safeguards in place against magical tampering; if she tried to put a spell on the device, it would explode prematurely. With a frown, Ginny now brought up the bomb's internal controls, which would give her access to the detonation sequence and the bomb's disarming functions.

To her surprise, the bomb seemed to resist her attempts to bring up said interface, given the sudden appearance of static in the detonation parameters interface. Frowning deeper, she focused on the thought of her desired command and pushed at the magical link she had established via her hand with all her mental might.

It took a few moments of trial and error, but she finally managed to bring it up, and she was once again surprised by what she found. If the creator of the bomb had failed to secure the machine from outside tampering horribly, he or she had not skimmed on the complexity of the bomb's detonation mechanism.

It was like a finely tangled web of magical links that made Ginny dizzy just by looking at it. From what little she understood of Curse Breaking, which she assumed was the field required to dismantle this insane web of magical links, each said link had to be carefully unpicked from the rest in the precise, _correct_ order. Ginny swore under her breath—she didn't have the theoretical understanding necessary to undo such a complex matrix. That only left physically carrying the bomb out of the danger zone—preferably somewhere near the Black Lake.

With an irritated scoff, she pulled out her hand from the magical interface and carefully considered her options now. Placing a levitating or weight reducing spell on it was right out due to its safeguards, and she had neither the time nor the expertise to dismantle its complex detonation matrix. That left one option—using enhancements on herself and carrying the damn thing with her to safety.

With a resigned sigh, Ginny closed her eyes, widened her stance, and consciously directed her magic throughout her body. This time, merely increasing the strength of her arms or legs wouldn't do—the weight of the bomb would still force immense pressure down onto her body, so unless she enhanced herself fully, she would be crushed by the much heavier device.

Slowly, she felt the familiar feel of warm energy flowing across her small body, relishing in the soft caress of her magic. She wasn't like her husband—she couldn't live without her magic. It was intoxicating to her, and every time she used it, she felt like she was soaring in the sky, free from all constraints. Though the guilt of what she usually did with it would never vanish, she could nonetheless never abandon or resent her magic for it.

When she felt a familiar tinge of pressure in her chest, she knew the enhancement process had finished, and she quickly got to work. Grounding herself well, she took a deep breath before grabbing the underside spikes that kept the bomb aloft and, breathing again, heaved with all her might. As expected, the bomb went up without much resistance. However, just as she could easily lift the ton-heavy device, she could also feel its gravitational effects, judging from the cracks that were starting to appear on the ground beneath her feet. Even despite her enhanced strength, she could also feel sweat congregating on her forehead as the pressure subconsciously transmitted itself to her brain. Her strength was unnatural, after all, and so her rational brain quite naturally understood exactly how much weight she was only lifting by external assistance.

Ginny took a tentative step forward, and was glad to see that her balance was still top class, despite the heavy weight above her head. Slightly bending her knees, Ginny couldn't help but let a small, excited smirk escape her stony façade as she felt the rush of adrenaline course through her veins. With a grunt, she pushed off the ground with as much leg power as she could muster, launching herself and the bomb high into the air, aimed straight towards the two mile-away Black Lake.

While in mid-air, she couldn't help but outright grin in excitement at the feeling of flying in the air, unaided. It had been a dream of hers, back before the war, to someday perhaps play in a Quidditch team as a Chaser. Harry had said he had no objections to it, and had even offered to help her seek out a good team; or, if necessary, build one from scratch. The war had eliminated those dreams, though, and now she only cared about protecting her family. Maybe after the war was over, she could—

A sudden pain in her side made Ginny jerk out of her daydream. Biting down on her lip to avoid making any sound that might reveal her location to the enemy, she quickly raised her body mass once again and prepared for a hard landing down on the ground—this time, in the cover of a small congregation of trees. As soon as she hit a meter distance from the ground, she lowered her arms and finally set down the bomb just as she hit the ground.

Panting from the pain, she put a hand on the left side of her abdomen. She wasn't at all surprised by the feeling of wetness on her hand the moment she had placed it there. Someone had managed to get a hit on her—_that_ was the surprise.

"Shit!" she hissed, drawing back her hand and looking at the coat of blood that now permeated her hand. She hadn't felt something pierce her, so it probably wasn't a stray bullet from an Imperial trooper. That left the enemy. Had she really been so careless?

She didn't have to think about that one to know she had. She had let her personal troubles and feelings of wonderment cloud her judgement. She should have checked to see that there were no enemies between the wall and the Black Lake and, if necessary, avoided simply going straight for the Lake.

Angry with herself for her carelessness, Ginny now made sure that she and the bomb were out of sight before taking out her wand and silently casting a healing spell on her torso, sighing in relief when the wound shrunk and finally disappeared. Her wound now healed, she subtly moved in the cover of the bushes amidst the trees and scouted out the area between her and the lake's shore.

'_Three hundred meters...give or take,_' she thought.

She glanced back towards the wall. She hadn't seen any of the other groups move out yet. Drawing her wand, she cast the sensor spell and then focused its search on Imperial magical transmitters, which each of the Assassins' wands had on them.

Ginny breathed a sigh of relief when nine dots appeared on the circular sensor image floating before her. None of them had been made yet, and they all seemed to be on the move from their different positions. Obviously, none of them had managed to find a way to defuse the bombs.

'_One more thing to add to the Assassin curriculum..._' she mused.

Dismissing the sensor image, she glanced at her bomb and pondered on how to proceed. Judging by the fact that she had just been shot at, she assumed that her position would eventually be overrun by the enemy, since they _had_ to have seen where she had landed. This presented her with a problem.

Healed though she was, she couldn't let herself become embroiled in an all-out fight, no matter how much her subconscious was begging her for it. She had to get the bomb _way_ out of range of the mountainsides around the main gate, and she had to make sure that the gate was opened once the Imperial troops managed to take the walls.

She would have let the bomb detonate where it was now, but she had a sinking feeling that the blast would still be enough to at least dislodge enough of the mountainsides' rock to then cause the inevitable chain reaction that would result in the gate being buried.

'_Well...' _she mused, looking out of her cover towards the field between her and the main golem army. '_If it's just a couple of goons, I guess it wouldn't hurt to take them out quickly and __then__ get the bomb to safety.'_

Ginny nodded to herself; that was probably the best course of action. As long as the bomb was kept away from the Imperial soldiers, it wouldn't detonate. Since the Black Lake shore was far enough from the coming battle to ensure this, it was the best place for safekeeping the bomb, especially since it would then be under the watchful gaze of the Imperial Navy's _Basilisk_ guns.

Ginny cast the sensor spell again, just to make sure everything was proceeding as planned. She smiled in satisfaction as she saw all nine blips move towards the lake, but then frowned as two suddenly stopped about halfway between her and the gate. Expanding the information on the two blips, she quickly read the personnel information that came up.

_Anton Sylva, Imperial Intelligence Service, Assassination Division, Grade 4. Core Signature ARZ-5_

_Lucas Richards, Imperial Intelligence Service, Assassination Division, Grade 5. Core Signature HMY-3_

Ginny quickly brought out her wand and tapped her temple with it, focusing on the core signature of Lucas Richards, the senior of the two Assassins she had seen stop on her sensor. The core signature was a nifty find that the Assassins of the IIS had managed to figure out—it facilitated communications between all Assassins by pre-recording the core signatures of all operatives. Since each one was unique, it ensured that there was no miscommunications.

"Assassin Richards, come in," she said out loud in a whisper. Ginny paused, waiting for a response, one eye on the sensor image that was still floating before her. Both blips seemed to be moving about rather erratically.

"Assassin Richards, come in, please!" she repeated, getting worried now.

She had to rein in an involuntary gasp as she saw one of the blips suddenly dash a fair distance on her sensor before blinking quickly and then disappearing. One of her assassins was dead. A glance at the contact information told her that it was Anton Sylva, the junior of the two.

'_Still, what can take out a Grade Four Assassin?!'_ she thought. The Assassin hierarchy in the IIS was based on Grades, with number 6 being the highest, and 0 being the lowest. Ginny was herself a Grade 6, but already getting into Grade 4 showed outstanding skill. No common grunt, not even a golem, was enough to take down a Grade 4.

So what the hell had happened there?

Ginny gritted her teeth at the thought of one of her men meeting their end on this damnable battlefield. She unconsciously pressed the tip of her wand against her temple, digging slightly into her pale skin.

"Assassin Richards, come in, please!" she all but whisper-yelled. "Please report! What the hell is going on over there?!"

For a moment, nothing came, and Ginny was about to try once again when she felt the connection open up at last. Checking her sensor, she saw that Richards was still moving and alive, but his signal was blinking slightly—an indication that he was injured.

'_What the hell is going on here?!_' she felt like screaming. '_What the __fuck__ are they fighting against that a Grade Four got killed and a Grade Five is getting trounced?!'_

It was a testament to how frazzled the ginger-haired assassin was that she had resorted to outright cussing, even if only in her mind. Assassins of Grade Five, nevermind Grade 6, were the elite of the elite in the IIS. They were sent against the toughest opponents, including suspected members of the Dark factions' Inner Circles, with the expectancy that the would succeed and quite possibly return alive.

"_Mistress!_" she heard Richards speak over the magical link. Even injured and in a fight, Richards had managed to remember to call her by her official Assassin title. "_Mistress! Sylva's down and I've suffered an injury to the left side of my torso. It is not fatal, but it is hindering my abilities! I request assistance, please!"_

Ginny couldn't help but feel something cold running down her spine. Whatever it was that Richards was fighting, it was making the man's trained calm break down piece by piece. She dug her wand a little deeper against her temple, her whole body tensed up. "Assassin! Calm down! I'll be right over!" she ordered. "Tell me, who is your opponent? What took out Assassin Sylva?!"

Nothing came through the link immediately, but she did get a reply from Richards a few moments after.

"_Mistress, I've never seen anything like this! She came at us out of nowhere! Please, Mistress, I can't hold on for long!_" Richards was practically panicking by now, she could tell by his tone, and Ginny swore, getting ready to cut the link and charge towards her ailing subordinate. Unfortunately, that was when she heard a scream through the link that she was sure Richards hadn't planned to transmit willingly.

Ginny froze, her eyes glued to the image of the sensor before her. Richards' blip had started blinking faster and faster. He was critically injured now.

"R-Richards...?" she barely got out.

"_M-Mistress_..." she heard through the link. "_...h-help...me...!_"

A gurgled gasp followed the plea through the communication link, and Ginny's eyes barely registered that Richards' blip had now faded away. Richards was dead.

"R-Richards...?" she whispered through the link. Nothing came through.

Ginny dropped her wand hand from her temple, ignoring the fact that a thin trail of blood had emerged from where her wand had dug deep enough into her skin to break it. She had been completely unaware of the pain, and even less aware of the fact that she was bleeding from her head.

A few seconds later, she felt a familiar tingle repeat itself several times, heralding the fact that several people were attempting to establish a link with her. Almost mechanically, she opened the communication channels.

"This is Assassin Mistress Potter," she said dully, her eyes still unfocused as she attempted to process the fact that two of her best men had been cut down by an unknown foe.

"_Mistress!_" came a voice. "_This is Assassin Orson! We've lost contact with Assassins Sylva and Richards! Please advise!_"

Ginny was silent for a while, her mouth slowly curling into an angry snarl. "Assassins Sylva and Richards..." she began softly, though the undertone of fury was not lost on anyone. "...have been murdered."

A cacophony of disbelieving noises erupted throughout the multiple channels, aptly relaying the feelings of all the remaining assassins.

"_What do you wish for us to do, Mistress?_" asked another voice. "_Shall we go exact revenge on behalf of our fallen brothers?_"

Ginny was tempted—_sorely_ tempted—to say yes. To completely abandon the mission and go after the fuckers who'd taken the lives of two of _her_ men. Fortunately, her rational, mission-bound side quickly shot that down.

"No," she replied after a few seconds of deliberation. "Finish the original mission. We cannot afford to fail General Sulu in this matter."

She could hear the immediate, angry response from her assassin team. They were obviously displeased at being cheated out of their revenge.

"Listen up!" she snapped angrily. "I'm every bit as furious as you all are about Sylva and Richards, but there's over _fifty thousand_ Imperial troops depending on us to clear the main gate of these bombs! Now go and finish your missions, Assassins!"

She could still hear the grumbling of the Assassins, but it seemed that they were all at least reluctantly willing to follow her orders. She didn't blame them; she wanted revenge as well.

"_What about Sylva and Richards, Mistress?_" asked Assassin Orson.

Ginny closed her eyes, giving a mental prayer for the souls of her departed men. "We'll take care of it after the mission objectives are done, Assassin."

With a few grunts of agreement, the communication links were severed, leaving Ginny to herself once again. Still, she could feel the boiling feelings of rage bubble in her mind. She wanted revenge for Sylva and Richards. She wanted to atone for her failure as a commander, which had somehow got them killed.

Gritting her teeth into an angry snarl, she placed her wand softly against her temple and focused on the core signature of the communications officer on board one of the _Basilisk_ ships.

"This is Assassin Mistress Potter, please respond, _HMAS Basilisk_," she stated.

An immediate reply came her way. "_Assassin Mistress Potter, this is HMAS Basilisk. How can we be of service?_"

Ginny glanced at her bomb for a second before continuing. "I've got a package I need you to blast to kingdom come. Authorisation code Alpha-Zulu-Romeo-Victor-Victor-Zero-Four."

She waited for a second before the reply came her way. "_Roger that, Assassin Mistress. Authorisation cleared. Is it a ground target? Because we haven't managed to get our magical shells past the ward at the lake shore."_

Ginny shook her head, despite the fact that the man on the ship couldn't see it. "Negative. Airborne."

"_That might be a problem, Assassin Mistress. Our guns are not exactly made for anti-air purposes."_

Ginny smirked, despite herself. "It's alright to simply light up the sky, _Basilisk_. Whatever it takes to get it destroyed."

A pause followed her statement, but a reply nonetheless came back at her. "_...Roger that, Assassin Mistress. When do we open fire?"_

Ginny closed her eyes, mentally preparing herself for what she was about to do. "On my signal, _Basilisk_. Aim for the sky right in front of the wards. Oh, and get the ships a fair distance away from the shoreline."

"_Not a problem, Assassin Mistress. Admiral Staples has had the fleet retreat a full two miles from the shoreline. Will that be enough?_" the man on the ship actually sounded worried now.

Ginny smiled. "Plenty enough, _Basilisk._ Please wait for my signal."

"_Roger that, Assassin Mistress._"

Sighing, she withdrew her wand from her temple, though she did not sever the connection. Instead, she simply left it open, though she did put her wand back into her robes. It would get in the way of her next action.

Crossing her arms before her horizontally, palms facing the ground, she mentally channelled a decent amount of magic into her arms, increasing her muscular strength tenfold—threefold more than when she had carried the bomb.

What she was planning to do was unquestionably risky, and perhaps even stupid to some. She didn't care, however. She wanted this damn bomb out of her sight and her agenda cleared for some serious hunting. She wanted to find the person responsible for killing Sylva and Richards and tear her apart.

Opening her eyes suddenly, she felt the magic in her arm muscles get to work, and the feeling of increased strength was unmistakable. Satisfied that she had accomplished the enhancement, she walked over to the bomb and, grabbing it by two of its bottom suspension spikes, heaved it up a full meter off the ground.

Ginny then grit her teeth before starting to spin around; slowly at first, then quicker and quicker. She spun until she looked more like a whirlwind than a person. By her twentieth spin, she glared at the hateful object she was heaving and, aiming roughly in the direction she had specified to the _Basilisk_, she let go of the bomb's spikes, making it soar through the sky at an unbelievable speed. Almost immediately, she drew her wand and put it to her temple, turning away from the lake's direction, a grim look on her face.

"_Basilisk..._" she said into the communication link. "Open fire."

Ginny did not allow the communications officer any time to confirm he had received her order, instead terminating the link mentally and putting away her wand. She was on her second step towards where Sylva and Richards had been attacked when she heard the sound of artillery going off before a resounding blast tore through the sky. Dismissing her enhancements from her arms, she applied some to her feet, albeit in small quantities—enough to ground her when she shockwave finally hit her. She didn't even stumble as the powerful gale pushed at her.

Finally, when the shockwave dissipated, Ginny raised her hood and quietly placed her wand against her temple, focusing on the core signatures of all her assassins. All throughout this, she kept walking towards her intended destination.

"This is Assassin Mistress Potter," she declared neutrally—her void absolutely devoid of any emotion. It was the voice of a master assassin. "I have completed my objective. As of this moment, I will search for and destroy the murderer of Assassins Sylva and Richards. Proceed with the original plan and do not interfere with my mission. Rally point stays the same. Over and out."

She quickly terminated the link before any of her assassins could protest. She had no patience for it right now. All she wanted was for blood to flow—for someone to pay for the crime of taking two men under charge from her. A commander, Harry had once told her, was like a father figure to his subordinates; he looked out for them and protected them, but gave them enough space to come into their own.

She, however, had failed her men. She had unknowingly let two of the IIS' best assassins get killed by some unknown foe, and Ginny would not stand for it.

With a flash of steel emanating from her robe sleeves, she disappeared.

The hunt was on.

* * *

_Hogwarts Main Gate_

Allan practically sighed in relief when he saw the Illusionary traps collapse around him. Suddenly, the amount of enemies seemed much more manageable. It was a shame that their kill count was skewed, but at least now they knew how many enemy troops there really were. From what he could tell, no more than a couple hundred. Maybe a thousand or so.

Allan grinned before whistling loudly, almost instantly recalling his company to his side, all of them getting into a pyramid formation at his side.

"Captain," one of his subordinates said. "The traps have fallen."

Allan nodded, a fierce smile on his face. "We'll have to thank whoever did this later," he said in agreement. "But for now, let's settle for _burying_ these fuckers!"

Roars of agreement around him was all the encouragement Allan needed to give the next order.

"_THIRD COMPANY!_" he roared loudly. "_ATTACK!_"

With roaring battlecries, the members of the worn Second Legion, Third Company charged the remaining defenders, the men of the Seventh Legion, their morale bolstered by Allan's seemingly dauntlessness, right behind them.

"FORWARD, MEN!" Allan heard someone from the Seventh shout. "Show the Second Legion that we're not to be outdone!"

The Seventh Legion had no chance of upstanding the Second, they knew, but the rallying shout was enough to put a definite edge in the spirits of the Seventh Legion's men and women. With distinguished courage, they kept up the pace set by the Third Company, themselves helping to mow down the remaining defenders as the Third Company opened a wedge in their formations, their personal shields repulsing the brunt of the lethal attacks.

"FORWARD, SEVENTH!" the shout rang again and again. "FOR HER MAJESTY!"

"FOR THE EMPIRE!" came the answering call from the Seventh, though many of the Third Company were tempted to join in. It was the clarion call of the Armed Forces, after all. Sure, it bordered on fanaticism, but all that did was make the average Imperial soldier a much tougher opponent for the Empire's enemies to face.

Allan, heading the Third Company spearhead along the length of his section of the wall, was having a blast. Swinging his shield like a razor, he managed to decapitate a golem before using his shotgun to blast another's head clean off. Then, in mid-stride, he crouched onto one leg, swept his other leg forward, and slashed at another golem with the edge of his shield, causing the thing to stumble backwards from the force of the blow; long enough for Allan to then bring his shotgun and blast the golem smack in the torso, tearing it apart thanks to the shield's previous tear.

Beside him, he knew his Third Company men and women were performing as well as he. He had no doubts about that. They all held onto the ambition of one day surpassing the Second and First Companies, and it showed in their battle ethic. They were merciless and yet professional in their fighting. Whether it was using personal shields and shotguns or rifles and grenades, his Third Company vowed to become the best in all aspects and so surpass the legendary First.

So far, after half an hour of continuous combat since the traps had gone down, the Third Company had managed, with the aid of the Seventh Legion, to capture about half of their section of the gate. The battle was far from over, though, and anyone could see that. Whether it was the Illusionary traps going down or something else, Allan and his men had noticed that the main enemy army moving forward to apparently reinforce the main gate. Frankly, Allan had always thought that they were stationed right behind the gate, but since the trap had gone down, he had quickly refuted this belief.

The fact that thousand of golems were now coming his way, however, was incredibly worrisome, especially if they failed to capture and open the gate before they arrived. By the force's current speed, he estimated that they had about an hour or so before things got ugly.

An hour. Not a whole lot, especially once one got carried away by the feeling of combat. It was very easy to lose track of time when one fought for one's life, so they had to make sure that the gate fell quickly. Or, at least, that the gate was open before the main enemy army reached them.

Allan snarled at an incoming golem and slammed it down to the ground with his shield, before shooting off a shell in its face as he held it down with his foot on its chest. Turning back his head to his men, he had a determined look on his face.

"Hurry, my brothers and sisters!" he cried, raising his shotgun. "The enemy army's on its way here, and we've got to get the gates open and the walls secured!"

Cries in agreement replied his cry, and the Third Company resumed their charge, using their shields as best they could to dissipate most of the enemy's spell fire. Even so, they unfortunately lost another five of their number before they reached the gatehouse, where the enemy had holed up. Each loss was another blow against the grim-faced Captain, but still he did not falter in his will to succeed. He would capture this gate, and thus bring honour and renown to his Company, thus honouring his fallen brothers and sisters.

However, even as he was about to order the charge against the gatehouse, something caught his eye. Allan turned his head towards the grounds between the main gate and the second gate and saw what appeared to be three figures fighting over an egg-shaped device. He was about to dismiss the whole thing as inter-fighting in the enemy ranks when he realised that he recognised the uniforms of two of the fighters.

They were Imperial Assassins. There was now no doubt in Allan's mind on this matter. He had only once before seen them in action, during a particular deployment in Egypt. They had been then tasked to infiltrate and assassinate a high-ranking Death Eater collaborator while the Imperial Army duked it out with the Collaborator army in an effort to place the Anti-Death Eater rebels into power.

That particular fight had not gone well, unfortunately. The rebels had been weaker than they had portrayed themselves, and the Death Eaters had made short work of them while the Imperial Army was barely reaching the field. The assassination, however, went off without a hitch.

Regardless of the details of that mission, Allan could not stand by and just watch two of his Imperial brothers (or, at least, he assumed them to be men from their musculature) get beaten back by their apparently very strong foe. Yet, he could not abandon his current mission, either. Allan glanced back and forth between the two Assassins and the gatehouse for a few seconds, trying to make up his mind, very much aware that his people were asking for orders.

Finally, it was the sight of one of the assassins getting blasted away and landing hard against the ground that made up his mind. Without checking to see whether the Assassin would stand up again, Allan turned to his men and pointed at five of them.

"You five, on me!" he ordered quickly. "Two Imperial Assassins are getting their asses kicked and it's our job to get them out of trouble!" he explained, before turning to his second in command—a Scotswoman by the name of Alice. "Lieutenant, you've got overall command now. Capture that gatehouse, ASAP!"

He barely saw Alice give an acknowledging nod before turning to his five designated soldiers, all of them grim-faced and ready to follow. Pointing to the stairs with his shotgun, Allan gave a battle cry. "Onwards! For Her Majesty!"

"For the Empire!" roared back the five soldiers, following him down the staircase that led to the grounds.

Mid-stride, Allan grasped the handle of his shield tighter than usual and was pleased to hear the familiar click of the handle's de/activation sequence. With a mechanical whirr, the round shield collapsed into itself and retreated into one end of the handle, leaving only the handle in his hand, which he deftly slid into his belt. His shield-hand now free, he quickly placed it under the SPAS-12's action-pump and switched on the semi-automatic function of the combat shotgun. Judging by how badly the remaining Assassin was faring (he noticed the second one hadn't got back onto his feet) against his opponent, Allan knew he couldn't afford to take his time with his shots. He had to get the enemy off his Imperial brother or else the man would be dead soon.

Apparently, his actions had not gone unnoticed by his impromptu squad, judging by the five clicks he heard behind him. Their black combat uniforms were thankfully loose enough for rapid movement, too, which meant they were making good time in reaching the duel.

Unfortunately, not quickly enough.

Allan could indistinctly hear the Assassin shouting something over and over, but it was clear to the veteran soldier that the assassin was losing this battle quickly. Unfortunately, not slowly enough for him and his men to rescue him in time. Without ever dropping their speed, the six-man Third Company squad watched as the Assassin's enemy finally struck down their remaining Imperial brother.

Anger filled the Third Company soldiers as the enemy stood over the corpse of their fallen fellow Imperial, probably gloating. Forming into a V-shaped formation, the six soldiers charged their opponent with battle cries on their lips.

Almost immediately, the person to Allan's immediate left let out an "Oomph!" before flying backwards as something impacted her in the stomach and launched her off her feet violently. Allan had barely turned his head to examine his comrade when he felt a rush of air pass right by where his head had been seconds ago. A flash of green told him how close he had come to meeting his maker.

"Holy Sh--" he started, but quickly cut himself off as he rolled forward, avoiding another spell. He heard four clicks and knew that his remaining men had activated their personal shields. It would hinder their accuracy, but Allan understood that without them, they'd be easy prey for this foe.

Shooting his hand to his belt, he made a grab for his shield handle and was horrified to find out that it had apparently got loose during his forward roll—ending up a full five feet away from his current position out in the open. A flash of red in the corner of his sight had him jumping sideways to avoid the vicious looking spell, and he quickly brought up his weapon, aiming in the general direction of his foe and letting loose four shots in quick succession. He paid no heed as to whether it had slowed his foe down. He only knew that if he didn't get to his shield handle, he'd be an easy target for the enemy.

Sprinting towards it while firing another two shots, he barely managed to roll forward in time to avoid another Killing Curse. Grabbing the shield handle mid-roll, he spared no time in pressing it's activation button and quickly brought it up, just in time for it to deflect a Killing Curse that would have ended his life the moment his knees touched the ground.

Looking around, he saw that two of his people were down on the ground, though the slow rise of their chests told him they were still thankfully breathing. The remaining three soldiers were all surrounding the enemy, occasionally lifting their shields to protect themselves or firing rounds at her. Whenever one of them had to reload, they would signal the two others who would distract the enemy while the third reloaded.

It made Allan proud to watch the disciplined show of cooperation. Rising to his feet, the veteran Captain shot towards his enemy, his shotgun levelled on top of his shield for better support. Gently pressing on the trigger, he let loose several shots at the enemy, barely noticing the recoil as he moved. With the expected grace and skill of the person who had managed to take down two Imperial Assassins, the enemy managed to put up small magical shields in the way of the bullets. Allan was somewhat surprised by the speed she had put them up with, though. There were few magicians alive that had that level of instinctual-degree skill with their magic.

In fact, he only knew the name of one person who had such level of skill, and this was only because it was heavily publicised in order to show how powerful the Empire's guardian family was.

Ginevra Molly Weasley-Potter. The Duchess of Halifax herself.

Allan had no idea what the Duchess did for a living, nor did he rightly care. Whatever it was she did, it was clear from her publicised level of skill that she would be a powerful Imperial guardian and a deadly foe to whoever chose to cross her.

Allan gritted his teeth as he used his shield to smack away an incoming Killing Curse, which slammed against his shield with surprising force. The person before him was truly strong. This could be a problem for he and his men.

Allan was not a magician, nor were his soldiers. They were special amongst troops in that they had survived combat _against_ magicians for a long time, but that did not mean they were in any way genetically designed to fight magicians on an even footing. Even if they had personal shields, it was entirely up to their own skills whether or not they would survive the confrontation.

And this particular foe seemed to be among the best magicians he had ever seen or fought against.

Allan was dimly aware that one of his men had been forced to move closer to him, until they were well within hearing range of each other.

"Sir, this isn't good!" shouted the man. "Richardson and Holowitz are both down, and we haven't managed to get a hit in!"

Allan growled loudly in response. "I know, soldier! Calm down and keep fighting! Whoever this guy is, we can't allow him to get away with murdering Imperial citizens!"

Yet, even though he spoke these words with bravado, Allan began to feel something he hadn't felt in years—fear. Abject fear.

He and his men were counted amongst the best soldiers in the Empire; they had killed countless magicians before this one; they had taken near-impossible-to-capture fortifications before, and yet this one enemy was toying with them as though they were children. They hadn't yet even landed a blow, that he could tell. No shot had reached their foe, and it actually seemed like the enemy was having fun fighting them.

Allan began to sweat bullets, though he retained his external image of a grim-faced, calm soldier. This wasn't how it went. Usually, he and his men would cause a panic in the enemy and force them to retreat, or at the very least wound them enough for subsequent forces to push their way through. He was losing, and he knew it.

'_Shit._' he thought. '_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!_' his shotgun was barely noticeably trembling on top of his shield as his body betrayed his frustration and fear. '_What do I do? What do __we__ do?!_'

Crushing his debilitating fear with sheer willpower, Allan gave a short battle cry as he levelled his shotgun at the enemy and fired off shot after shot, tracing the enemy's movements as it seemingly effortlessly dodged his shots, moving from side to side, closer and closer to him and his fellow soldier.

Realising the danger he was placing his comrade in, Allan didn't even bother to order the man to go away—he outright pushed him aside, even as he felt more than saw the incoming spell. Forcing his reflexes to their maximum capability, he raised his personal shield immediately, only barely managing to deflect the spell in time. It was more instinct than actual thought that made him then raise his weapon to block what he could only assume was a bladed weapon, from the oddly sharp clanging sound it made when it hit the gun.

"Tch!" he scoffed in frustration, even as he felt his opponent somehow pushing down on him as much as he was pushing against. Whoever this was, they were also physically strong, which once again differentiated it from previous magician opponents.

"Impressive, for a Muggle," said the figure, somehow managing to emit an oddly melodious voice that was definitely female in origin. Either that, or the man before him was a eunuch.

Just as suddenly as the pressure had been forced down on him by the blade, it disappeared, and Allan ventured a glance over his shield and gun to see that the woman had apparently disengaged, flipping backwards until she was a good ten meters away. Getting to his feet like the proud soldier he was, Allan matched the now-obvious woman's stare, only glancing down to look at the state of his shotgun.

Ruined.

A deep gash was imbedded in the barrel, the gashes in which would undoubtedly cause the shells to explode mid-barrel if he was foolish enough to try firing with it. Without a second thought, he cast it aside, reaching to his left side to draw a standard-issue straight-sword that was mandatory for all Second Legion members, in case they ever needed to go into close combat.

This was bad, and Allan knew it. He was so-so with a sword, only. After all, guns usually did most of the work, and swords were pretty much outdated. Still, he silently thanked whoever had the forethought of assigning his Legion close-combat weaponry.

Allan glanced around. His men were still surrounding the woman, and his two fallen men seemed to have snapped out of their stupor and were participating in the surrounding action. All of them had their still-functional shotguns levelled at the woman. Allan raised his sword and pointed it straight at the woman, his face grim and serious, even though he was internally fighting with himself in order to crush the fear he truly felt.

"I am Allan Moore, Captain of the Third Company, Second Legion of the Imperial Army," he announced bravely. "You are surrounded; lay down your wand and any other weapons and surrender!"

He only had to glance at the woman's amused eyes to know that she would never do any such thing. Even if she did, they told him that it would only ever be used as a ruse to then stab them in the back. Fortunately, no such tricks were apparently on the woman's mind, as she laughed beneath the black cowl that covered her features. Her slim, athletic figure was imperceptibly shaking from mirth, too, which somewhat offended Allan.

"What an amusing proposal, _Mister Moore_," she drawled out his name slowly, sensually even; and yet, absolutely full of mockery. "You seem to think you can beat me. I wonder where you got such a silly idea?"

Before he could blink, the woman disappeared from his sight and the next thing he heard was the scream of one of his subordinates. Allan snapped his head towards his left, and could only watch helplessly as the woman essentially used his subordinate as a landing platform, digging her high heels into the poor soldier's body as well as a wicked looking sword.

The soldier's body hit the ground with a dull thud, and just as quickly, the woman disappeared from view once again, just as the other soldiers tried to avenge their fallen comrade by blasting her out of existence. Somehow, inexplicably, she managed to dodge everything they fired at her, and practically dancing her way towards his men, Allan saw her use the wicked looking sword, seemingly surgically attached to her arm (judging from the fact that she wasn't using her hand to wield it), to slash at his men's limbs or bodies. Not all of them received fatal wounds, to his relief, but he knew they were severe enough that they would bleed to death soon if he didn't get them medical aid. Regardless, the woman had, in mere seconds, dispatched or incapacitated all five of his subordinates with little effort on her part, considering the total absence of signs of fatigue.

Allan gritted his teeth, his grasp on his sword tightening considerably. "Monster!" he hissed out. That was the only label he could think of, frankly. Nothing else seemed applicable to what he had just witnessed. His grip on his shield, too, tightened as he brought it up, raising his sword behind him, ready to strike as he began a blind, headlong charge towards her.

And yet, he hadn't taken more than two steps forward before he felt his body abruptly stop, something cool and metallic pressing against his neck painfully. Without having noticed, the woman had slipped from his vision and had managed to capture him, one of her hands on his chest almost gently and the other at his neck, the blade protruding from within her black robes just about ready to slit his throat. He involuntarily shivered as he felt her breath at his ear.

"So eager to die, Muggle?" he heard her whisper, and Allan couldn't help but gulp nervously. The serrated blade pressed against his neck a little more. He felt a painful prick in his skin and knew he was bleeding—insignificantly, but still bleeding. "Say the word, and I'll send you to the hereafter."

Allan didn't know where he was getting his courage, but he nonetheless felt it as he retorted, "Do your worst, witch!" he hissed. "Imperial soldiers do not beg for their lives!"

The blade pressed a little more against his neck, but Allan's expression remained defiant, staring seriously at the sky above, practically offering his neck to his captor. He then heard a disgusted scoff emerge from his captor's hood.

"You Muggles are all the same," he heard her whisper harshly into his ear. "Full of vim and verve, but no skills to back it up!" The blade pushed a bit more against his neck—there was a small, thin horizontal line of blood flowing down towards his uniform now. "We wizards...we are the superior race! And not you, nor your previous _Duke_," she spat the word out disgustedly. "...will stop us from taking our rightful place at the top! My lord will see to it!"

Allan rallied what little courage he had left in order to reply, but he felt oddly satisfied when he did. It felt right to have the last word against this monster that held his life captive. "Voldemort is finished! The age of wizards and normal humans living apart is over! This age belongs to the Blessed British Empire, and its message of harmony through order!" he snapped back defiantly.

He heard an angry hiss behind him, and he knew he had thoroughly pissed off his captor. Allan closed his eyes, making his peace even as he felt the blade's serrated edge dig deeper into his skin. Any second now, she would violently pull back the blade, undoubtedly ripping his throat apart in the process. Well, if he was going to die, then he would go out memorably, he decided.

Snapping his eyes open, he looked to the sky and shouted out what he assumed to be his last words.

"MY QUEEN!" he roared, catching the woman off guard, by the way the blade had suddenly jerked slightly at his impromptu speech. It pained him, but he did not falter. "LONG LIVE YOUR BLESSED RULE OVER OUR HOLY BRITISH EMPIRE!"

He was barely finished speaking when he heard the woman behind him hiss angrily in response. "Fine! Die for your miserable Queen, Muggle!" she yelled into his ear, the blade at his neck moving slightly as her arm tensed, ready to rip apart his throat with a single pull.

Allan could hear her begin a kiai when he suddenly felt the blade get pulled off his neck and the woman's body heat behind him disappearing suddenly. All the sensation he felt at his neck now was the wet feeling of his blood flowing down. Absently placing a hand there to futilely stop the blood flow, he looked around to see what had happened.

His captor was standing a good twenty feet from him, her mouth—the only feature he could see from his position—curled into an angry snarl, her body tensed up and in a battle-ready stance. She was glaring at something beyond him, though, he could tell. Turning around to see what she was staring at, he was surprised to see a figure in a matching outfit to his opponent's, except this one was completely white from head to toe, with the exception of a red sash at the figure's waist.

The white-robbed person walked over to him calmly and stopped only once it had passed him by a single step.

"Are you alright, soldier?" asked another feminine voice, equally melodious to his captor's. What differentiated it, though, was that it felt warmer, and yet he could feel the underlying steel that spoke volumes of her skill.

Allan kept his gaze away from her figure, not daring to make eye contact for some reason. He merely nodded, his throat hurting, but it seemed that the white-robed woman noticed his nod.

"Good," she said. "Gather what is left of your men and retreat to the gate. I will take care of this one," she said, meaning the black-robed woman.

Despite already agreeing to her order, Allan couldn't help but challenge her authority to order him around. Not many could, after all. "May I know who is ordering me to do so?" he asked, not impudently.

He heard the sound of a sword being unsheathed and glanced back, seeing a straight sword peeking out from the white-robed woman's left sleeve. Her free hand had gone up to lower her hood, revealing a mane of red hair that billowed softly in the breeze, otherwise framing pale white skin.

"Assassin Mistress Ginevra M. Weasley-Potter, Duchess of Halifax, soldier," she said with authority, knowing full well that she had shocked the man into speechlessness, even though she didn't actually look back at him. She kept her gaze on the woman before her. The one who had murdered two of her agents. She reached down to her side and lifted a cross that was hanging from her sash, dangling it in front of Allan's face. It was a cross made up of four daggers-like shapes, with a circular halo surrounding the middle.

"By the battlefield authority vested in me by the Assassin's College of the Imperial Intelligence Service, I am ordering you to retreat from this battle, Captain Moore, Third Company, Second Legion," she stated authoritatively, her eyes never leaving her opponent's figure. "I have trash to take out, and you're getting in the way."

* * *

_AN: Originally, I was going to post the fight between Ginny and her Voldie-aligned counterpart in this same chapter, but considering the amount of time I was taking just writing this chapter until now, I decided to give you guys a break and use the next chapter to give the fight its deserved due. Look forward to it, and please remember to review. Sometimes, I make mistakes, and I feel grateful whenever these mistakes are pointed out to me so I can fix them quickly._

_Cheers,_

_MB  
_


	42. Chapter XXXV: The Changing Times

_AN: Wow. This chapter was somewhat hard to write. Especially given the need to switch from Ginny to Moore to Sulu and back to Moore to Ginny, and so forth. Hope it meets expectations, though, since my fight scenes are a constant source of self-doubt._

_Cheers,_

_Marquis Black  
_

* * *

_Previously..._

_She reached down to her side and lifted a cross that was hanging from her sash, dangling it in front of Allan's face. It was a cross made up of four daggers-like shapes, with a circular halo surrounding the middle._

"_By the battlefield authority vested in me by the Assassin's College of the Imperial Intelligence Service, I am ordering you to retreat from this battle, Captain Moore, Third Company, Second Legion," she stated authoritatively, her eyes never leaving her opponent's figure. "I have trash to take out, and you're getting in the way."_

_

* * *

_As though commanded by the mood of the battlefield below, the sky itself seemed to shift from a clear dusk to a stormy night. Black clouds gathered above Hogwarts Valley, and little by little, rain began to pour down, until it was a heavy sheet of precipitation that weighed heavily on the combatants littering the field.

At the main gate, the remainder of the Third Company had managed, without the leadership of its Captain Allan Moore, to capture the gatehouse about ten minutes after his departure. The result was the opening of the gates and the massive influx of Imperial troops into the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

As though spurred on by this apparent defeat, the enemy began its move as well, with the golem army stationed in front of the second gate springing to life as it marched steadily to meet the Imperial army midway on the field.

Yet, despite the obvious monumental clash that would result of these two fighting forces meeting head to head, it was not the main event, in Allan Moore's humble opinion. The main event, as it were, was the one he was following with his eyes from behind his cover in a small thicket of trees near the Forbidden Forest, where he had placed his injured comrades out of the way.

Before him, fighting with a skill he had never in his life seen before, was the Assassin Mistress Ginevra Weasley and her apparent counterpart in Riddle's forces. The two assassin women had been continuously exchanging blows for the past ten minutes at unbelievable speeds. So much so that he was left stunned and speechless from the impressive display of skill. It was all he could do to keep his jaw from dropping and his attention from being so completely lost in the fight before him. It wouldn't be good if that happened, considering his unadvisable position near the Forbidden Forest.

Still, it was the best he could do on short notice and distinct lack of other options, and it gave him and his injured mates a first-row view of the amazing fight between the two master assassins.

For her part, Ginny was totally and completely absorbed in the fight. Her eyes had never once strayed from her target, and though the other woman was matching her blow for blow, she was not yet tiring out, which surprised her. It meant that the woman had managed to hone her own skill to Ginny's level, thereby expediting as little magic as necessary in each blow.

Seeing an opening, Ginny thrust in her left retractable blade towards the woman's midriff while the assassin was busy still deflecting her right blade. As expected, however, the woman kicked off the ground and, in a surprisingly capable demonstration of acrobatics, bent her body forward, her legs completely spread out, making Ginny miss with her blade and instinctively forcing her to pull back her left arm as her opponent lashed out with a sweeping kick that she only barely blocked with her forearm.

The redhead gritted her teeth as the blow hit her with some force, which only a steady supply of magic towards her arm had prevented it from breaking under the obviously-enhanced blow. Taking advantage of her opponent's mid-flight position, Ginny violently pushed away the leg from her with her blocking forearm, hoping that the sudden impulse would throw off the woman.

The immediate reaction did not disappoint Ginny. The woman's eyes, barely noticeable under the obscuring hood, had widened considerably when Ginny had performed said stunt, causing her to suddenly be forced to the left, leaving her mid-riff completely exposed. Taking advantage of the apparent weakness, Ginny brought her right blade forward, a grin on her face as she relished the idea of ending this pest.

Unfortunately, it seemed that although the enemy had been taken by surprise, that did not mean she had lost her wits. Still mid-flight, the woman nonetheless saw the blade coming right at her mid-riff, intent on severing her in two, and acted appropriately to evade it. Shooting her rear leg forward, the woman's foot connected with Ginny's right forearm, causing her to go into a spin from the force of the impact.

Almost simultaneously, both women hit the ground, hard. Yet, neither stayed there for more than a second, almost instantly recovering elegantly to their feet. Upon impact, Ginny had taken advantage of going down arms first and had shot her lower body upwards, flipping onto her feet. Her opponent, for her part, had decided to violently criss-cross her legs from her lying position on the ground in order to gain momentum and then used it to get into a crouching position, rising from it then to a ready stance.

Neither women wasted any time in judging the other side, merely shooting at each other with almost reckless abandon. Steel clashed against steel as the two women danced around each other, their prosthetic blades clashing every second or so. Sometimes, the blows were so violent that sparks shot out from where the four blades met each other. Yet, it wasn't just the blows themselves that would decide the fight—footwork was equally important.

Showing a level of skill that would put professional dancers to shame, the two women circled each other without missing a step. Ginny would sometimes execute spinning turns, usually preceded by one blow and then followed by another in an effort to dodge her opponent's defenses and hopefully get a chance to hit the woman's exposed left or right sides.

_Clang. Clang._

The blades of the two women met in a confusing array of metallic death between them as they pressed forward with all their might in order to overcome the other. Neither side budged an inch, though the ground at their feet was beginning to give way to the increasing amount of pressure being placed on it by the two's flaring magical enhancements.

Her hood down, Ginny's face was unmistakably scrunched in focus and determination, her teeth grit and her eyes glaring holes into her opponent, whose own face was unreadable due to her hood staying up. Even so, both women could feel the other's breath on their face, so close were they as they pushed and pushed, hoping that the other would give way eventually.

"Not bad, little girl!" said the black-robed woman, respecting her opponent's strength.

Ginny allowed a vicious grin to emerge from her focused look. "Better than you, in any case!" she taunted with false bravado. In truth, she knew that they were evenly matched, but she wasn't about to admit that in the middle of a fight.

Ginny saw the flash of an obscured grin under the woman's hood. "An empty taunt, girl, and you know it!" A burst of magic later, Ginny felt the pressure against her blades increase significantly. Not to be outdone, she did the same, and the deadlock was restored.

Ginny smirked. "If that's all you can do, then I'd say this match is in the bag, hag!" she kept up the taunt, hoping to make the woman make a mistake through emotional displays. She knew the woman probably wouldn't, but it was never wise to burn one's bridges before even attempting to cross them.

"Hmph!" scoffed the woman, suddenly disengaging one of her deadlocked blades and swinging for Ginny's head.

Ginny couldn't help but smirk. "Amateur move, you fucking bint!" she shouted, bringing one of her two blades out of the deadlock as well and, ducking her head in the process, aiming for a clean stab of the woman's chest.

Which was why she was surprised when she saw the knee coming up at her. A swift glance up noted that the woman was grinning viciously.

"Gotcha!" the word rang in the air.

Ginny grunted in frustration as she barely avoided the incoming knee by forcing her head to the side, unfortunately losing her footing in the process. She knew more than saw the immediate follow-up stabs that the woman launched down at her the moment she had avoided the knee, and took advantage of her horizontal falling position to push herself away from the woman, ending up rolling on the ground for a few feet before she ably rolled onto her feet, blades extended downwards and away from her, ready to be used once more. She quickly jumped backwards several times in order to increase their mutual distance.

She was suddenly made aware of the falling rain when she felt a particularly fat droplet of water hit her nose, causing her split-second discomfort. It had totally escaped her that it had been raining for the past twenty minutes, so focused she had been on the fight. Re-analyzing the field's conditions with this new information on hand, Ginny felt an idea emerge in her head. It was risky, but could, if successful, give her a critical opening in the woman's defenses. While anyone else might have thought the odds of success too low for application, Ginny was of the firm belief that 0.001% chance of success was as good as 100%. Only 0% would ever make her reconsider.

With a flick of her wrists and an excited, vicious grin on her face, she confounded her opponent by retracting her blades back into her robes, instead crossing her arms towards her mid-riff and pulling out her two pistols from her belt. They weren't ME bullets, however, so the guns were of the modern kind. Two Beretta 92's, 5.9" barrel variants made their way into her grasping hands.

With a taunting wink at her opponent, Ginny launched herself forward, her front foot digging into the muddy ground so much that a two-inch high amount of dirt had bunched up behind the sole. Just as the woman brought up her blade defensively, Ginny surprised her by shooting out her front leg and sliding down onto the ground, using the muddy soil as transportation as she slid forward, her two gun-hands lifted up and aimed at her opponent.

The woman had only a split second to cross her arms before her and so raise a basic anti-projectile shield before Ginny let loose a hail of bullets, all of which expectedly got flattened by the firm projectile shield. Just as Ginny had expected.

As the ground between her and the woman went to less than a few feet, her grin widened as she shot both guns one last time before flinging them aside and unsheathing her left-arm blade with a distinct mechanical hiss, her body rising to her still-sliding knees in the process. The woman had less than a second to notice what Ginny had been planning all along and act appropriately. Unfortunately, even with magical enhancements, that was too little time.

Ginny felt her blade sink into the woman's side for less than an inch before the woman jumped away, ending the effectiveness of Ginny's attack, though the trail of flying blood in the air told the redhead that her gamble had succeeded. Not giving her opponent a chance to attack her while on the ground, Ginny quickly jumped onto her feet and then moved back a few meters in order to observe her enemy's reaction to being wounded.

For a moment, neither woman moved—Ginny's eyes were firmly locked on her opponent's figure, while her Dark counterpart was slightly hunched over, a hand on her new wound in what Ginny guessed was a move to stem the flow of blood. Proof of good training, if anything.

As the seconds ticked by, Ginny wondered whether the woman was going into shock from the wound, though the redhead couldn't fathom why; the wound wasn't _that_ bad. She'd personally gone through worse, and a minor healing spell was probably enough to take care of the gash.

It took a few more seconds, but the woman finally moved once again, removing her hand from the wound. There was no wound there anymore, leaving Ginny impressed. Even with her own skilled spellwork, scarring was generally left behind—not so in this case. It was as if the wound had never existed at all.

She didn't dwell on the impressive feat of magic, however. The fact that the woman had taken care of her wound told the petite redhead that the fight would renew soon enough. Ginny ran through all her options in her head, analyzing what she had gathered of the woman's fighting style and trying to find the best way to overcome it.

Deciding to mix things up a bit, she shot an arm into her robes and drew out a handful of throwing knives, all of them held between her fingers expertly. With a violent, horizontal flick of her arm, she sent about twenty of the knives at the woman, following up the throw with a run at breakneck speed, retractable swords hissing forth from within her robes. The knives would end up blocked, she knew, but if she was lucky, they would force the woman to focus on the projectiles long enough for her to strike.

As Ginny had predicted, the woman started deflecting the knives, but not with her blades. With simple flicks of her wrist, she seemingly deflected the knives with her mind. Unfortunately, that still seemed to require focus, so Ginny saw a clear way ahead as she dove behind the knives at her opponent, both blades raised in order to strike.

"Gotcha."

The one word sent alarms through Ginny's head, and it took all she had to force one arm down so that its retractable blade blocked the incoming strike with the flat of the blade, breaking the steel weapon in the process. Her other arm, however, had no such luck.

Having foreseen Ginny's attack, the woman had taken the last throwing knife's blow in her arm and sidestepped so that Ginny would be facing her left shoulder first. When she had brought up her left arm to impale the redhead, she had also started a swinging blow with her right.

Predictably, the woman's right arm retractable blade hit Ginny about an inch off the joint, not exactly severing her arm, but at the very least rendering it useless unless she applied emergency medical treatment ASAP.

Pain shot through Ginny's nervous system as she felt the cold steel bury itself in her shoulder, ruthlessly tearing through muscle and skin until she felt it protrude the back of her shoulder and remain there. Even in mid-air, Ginny knew she was in deep trouble. If she tried to wrench herself off the blade, she risked severing her arm entirely. Her only real option was to move backwards, but that was something incredibly difficult to do mid-air.

A controlled burst of magic to her front was her only choice if she wanted to keep her arm relatively intact, but she knew that given her current pain-induced condition, she could make a mistake that could aggravate the wound.

On the other hand, she wouldn't be Harry's wife if she didn't possess a slightly reckless frame of mind when it came to odds.

Pushing down the pain ruthlessly, she brought up her right hand and aimed it straight at the woman's chest, gathering as much magical energy at her palm as she possibly could. She was about done making her preparations when she felt a sudden jerk in her body. Clearing her gaze from its pain-induced fogginess, she realized that she was being held up by her robes by her enemy. Absently, Ginny noticed that her second blade seemed broken as well.

Under the hood, she could see the woman's vicious, triumphant grin as she held up her foe, blade still impaling the redhead's shoulder.

"Nice try, girl!" she complimented mockingly. "But not good enough! Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice..."

Grinning sadistically, the woman twisted the blade ever so slightly, making Ginny involuntarily whimper as copious amounts of her nerves became alight with pain. The woman's grin widened at the reaction.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she said mockingly. "Did that hurt?" She twisted the blade a bit more, and tears began to form at the redhead's eyes. It was an involuntary reflex, but the woman seemed to enjoy it as though she had managed to break Ginny's will to fight.

She pulled Ginny closer to her hood, and Ginny could, through her tearful eyes, see the vicious glare that she was being shot by her enemy.

"This is nothing, _nothing_ compared to the pain you've caused me, you filthy bint!" hissed the woman viciously.

Despite her current predicament, Ginny's interest was sparked by that comment, derogatory though it was. Her opponent had unveiled a vital piece of information; she was someone who had probably been negatively affected by her previous assassination work during the war with the Death Eaters. Granted, that profile would fit any number of people, considering that the people she had killed were relatively well-connected and in high positions of power.

Ginny wondered which of the hundreds of dead bodies she had left behind was connected to the woman holding her up. The voice _sounded_ familiar, but Ginny couldn't place it; as though it was some distant, far-off memory.

_Memory..._

Ginny's brain went into high gear. Memories from her days in Hogwarts flooded her consciousness, as though prompted by some subconscious memory related to her current predicament.

_Memory...Memory..._

Ginny could feel the answer just beyond her grasp. She was nearly there; if only the woman would give her a few more milliseconds to go through everything.

_Memory...Memory..._

_..._

…

A memory of a day at Diagon Alley with her family hit her like a freight train.

_A boy and his mother._

_Draco._

_She walks just like a Malfoy._

_Draco's mother?_

Ginny's eyes widened spectacularly as the revelation hit her. Barely seconds had passed since the woman had insulted her, but Ginny now fully understood what was going on here. And as a desperate plan formed in her conniving mind, she was fully intending to use every inch of information she had to get out of her current situation.

"Narcissa," Ginny hissed, understanding colouring her tone.

The woman show no overt reaction to the redhead's words, but the slight, barely noticeable twitch in her left shoulder was enough to tell Ginny she had hit the bulls-eye. Seemingly resigned to the fact that her cover was blown, the woman flicked her head backwards, cancelling the attaching spell in the process, and thus letting the hood fall back, indeed revealing Narcissa Malfoy.

Age had treated her well, Ginny had to admit. She didn't look a day over forty. Her blonde, almost golden coloured hair was arranged in a severe bun, and Ginny had to strain her eyes to find a single wrinkle in Narcissa's face.

That struck her as odd. Ginny knew that magic-users aged slower than normal folks, but there was simply no accounting for _this_ much ageing retardation, short of massive plastic surgery and/or magical makeup—the latter of which she could not detect on her opponent at all, and the former of which she highly doubted Narcissa would dabble into, being a Muggle practice.

"You're good, girl," conceded Narcissa, her eyes revealing the slight amount of surprise she held at being discovered with so little clues. "How did you know?"

Ginny gave a pained, yet defiant grin. "Memory's an impressive thing."

Narcissa scoffed irritably at the redhead's continuing defiance. In her opinion, she had won the battle, and would soon revenge herself by taking the blasted Potter boy's whore's life. Nothing would come between her and her vengeance—not even the girl's pathetic attempts at gathering magical energy in her left hand; as though she couldn't tell what was going on!

Narcissa wanted to laugh victoriously at her triumph, but her relatively recent entry into combat service for her Lord had taught her to be prudent about these situations. Her Lord was not as he used to be—he did not demand extended torture or any sort of megalomania in his followers. All he wanted was for the job to go according to _his_ plans and for his men to _not_ screw up.

Voldemort might not have been the kindest person around, but he was most rewarding to those who followed his basic tenets: Obey and Follow.

Her orders regarding the redhead were just as simple: Kill her.

So Narcissa knew she couldn't screw around with this. She didn't have the luxury of taking her time in torturing the admittedly beautiful assassin that also served as the Iron Duke's link to sanity. Her Lord had confided in her that he suspected that her death would drive him not only over the edge, but into a totally destructive, indiscriminate full-out rampage. Such a thing would inevitably and assuredly deal a lethal blow to the morale of the Empire and forever shatter the Iron Duke's reputation, leaving the way open for total destabilisation.

In a highly ironic way, it wasn't the Duke who was the most important piece of the chess board, but the petite, redheaded woman Narcissa was now holding up, her life hanging in the balance.

Finally deciding to end the little wretch's life, Narcissa violently pulled out her remaining retractable blade from the redhead's pained frame and readied the final blow, aiming right for Ginny's throat. She locked eyes with the redhead and couldn't help but be infuriated by the utterly defiant and feisty look she was giving the blonde. This wasn't how she wanted the little tart's life to end! She wanted whimpers! Screams! She wanted her to be begging for mercy!

Narcissa gritted her teeth in fury. She knew she had to deal the final blow, but she could also feel her own personal desire for vengeance clamouring for satisfaction, which one final blow would not give. Maybe it wasn't necessary for Ginny to die _just _yet.

The moment of indecision cost Narcissa dearly—more than she had ever expected. With all the suddenness of a lightning bolt hitting the ground, a shot rang out in the field and Narcissa felt her right arm jerk sideways as the sound of metal breaking filled her ears.

Her remaining blade had been shot off.

Narcissa's training was nothing to sneeze at, however, and she immediately snapped her head towards her new attacker, finding herself completely and utterly shocked as she gazed upon the figure of the Muggle Captain that Ginny had saved before their fight, a standard combat rifle in his hands, its muzzle still emitting smoke from the shot.

Ginny's training was nothing to sneeze at either, though. Silently thankful for the split-second distraction, she suddenly poured all the magical energy she could muster at a time into her left hand and then let it loose on Narcissa's slender frame, hitting the older woman right in the chest. The blast of concentrated magic forced Narcissa off her feet and made her fly backwards, letting go of Ginny from the violent backlash.

Ginny's own eyes were temporarily blinded by the flash of concentrated magic being exploded at point blank range. She had wisely erected a shield with her right hand just as she had lost contact with her magical discharge, and had thus saved herself from the most lethal bits of the explosion. Either way, though, she was on her back on the muddy ground, several meters away from where she had been hanging at Narcissa's mercy.

Her whole body ached, and she knew damn well why. Besides the force of the explosion, she had also consumed a lot of magic in that little trick—enough to physically drain her as though she had run a marathon without any prior training.

She was only dimly aware that Captain Moore was standing behind her head and looking down at her.

"You look like shit, Your Grace," he stated bluntly.

Ginny couldn't help the grin that formed on her face at hearing the unbelievably crude assessment of her condition. "I feel like it, too," she admitted somewhat bashfully. She noticed that the rain had stopped falling on her face, and squinting her eyes, she saw that Moore was slightly bent forward, so that his wide frame stopped the rain from hitting her. "Thanks."

Allan smiled lopsidedly. "For the save, or for being your umbrella?"

Ginny laughed. "Both, I guess."

Allan extended a hand, and Ginny grabbed hold of his forearm instead, pulling herself up to her feet with her good arm, while the other still hung somewhat limply from the nasty gash in her shoulder. She gritted her teeth in pain.

"Stupid bint got me good," she hissed painfully as she grasped at her bad shoulder and fed some healing magic into the wound. It would take a while, considering the amount she had already expended.

Allan, in turn, looked over to where Narcissa's body lay still on the ground. The body was still smoking from the explosion, and though he couldn't see her face, he had no doubt it would hold a surprised expression. Most people did, when they were killed so off-guard this way.

Allan turned his attention back to the Duchess the moment he heard the sound of fabric being ripped. To his surprise, she had completely torn off her right robe sleeve and was now using it to bind her wounded shoulder, using her teeth as a grasping force when tying the knot securely. Allan was surprised. He knew she was an Assassin Mistress, but then most aristocrats tended to be assigned to such positions due to their social position, not necessarily their skill, and when he had returned to help the little redhead, she had been at the mercy of her opponent. Additionally, he had missed most of the fight in order to get to the front gate and acquire the rifle he needed. The fact that she knew how to bind her own wound so expertly, however, suggested she was not all talk at all.

"I'll have you know I have the highest individual body count in the entire Imperial Army," she suddenly said out loud, as if having guessed his thoughts by the look on his face. She grinned slyly at him. "Would you like a demonstration as to why?"

Allan was no idiot. He didn't have to look very carefully to notice that the look in her eyes was that of a seasoned killer. He had little doubts now that in a one-on-one fight, he would end up face down on the ground, probably drowning in a pool of his own blood. "Nah, I'm good, Your Grace. I'll take your word for it," he said instead, smiling lopsidedly.

Ginny chuckled to herself as she mentally kept the flow of healing magic going towards her wound. It was no longer lethal, but if she wanted the probable scar to be as inconspicuous as possible, she needed a lot more time of constant healing. A break in the process would probably get her off track and leave significantly more visible scar tissue. It wasn't a mobility deterrent or a hindering scar by any means, but Ginny silently feared the idea of exposing a scarred body to her husband, even if behind closed, sealed doors. Despite his reassurances and her own pride as a warrior, she couldn't help but feel insecure when she assessed her relationship with him. He never seemed to stop rising, becoming more and more of the mythological figure his persona of the Iron Duke had been elevated to, while she lingered behind, remaining at best his shadowy right hand, silently eliminating the obstacles in his way to the greatness she thought he rightfully deserved. Maybe it was silly, but she never felt good enough for him.

Of course, the only way she managed to put aside those traitorous thoughts was for her to keep succeeding in her own missions. Every time she returned victorious from an assignment, she could see the pride in his eyes, and that made it all worth it.

Whatever her next thoughts were, she didn't manage to complete them as the hair on the back of her neck suddenly rose, a chill running down her spine like a lightning bolt. Something was wrong.

She shot her eyes towards where she knew Narcissa's body to be, and was rewarded with the sight of nothing. There was no body—just the loose earth she had dug up while she had skidded to a halt. Immediately, she turned to Allan, who was looking at her oddly.

"What is it?" he asked, curiously.

Something gave off a metallic flash just behind and over Allan's left shoulder, and Ginny's eyes widened. She instinctively moved over towards Allan, hand outstretched.

"MOORE!" she yelled, expectedly seeing the broken fragment of a retractable sword lunging down towards Allan's back, Narcissa's golden hair now visible to the redhead. "MOVE!"

Any other man would have just stared at Ginny, but Allan was a veteran of over a dozen battlefields. He had been saved by heeding countless such warnings, and his body has thus been trained to instinctively move on order. As such, he was extremely lucky when, instead of getting a broken blade shoved through his back and into his heart, he merely had the edge of his shoulder slashed deeply as Narcissa shot past him, arm outstretched.

"SHIT!" cursed Allan, quickly turning around and, while running backwards, shot off a few rounds at Narcissa, who deftly dodged them by moving out of their way. "I'm hit!" he informed Ginny, although the redhead needed no such report—she had seen the spray of blood after Allan had been grazed by the blade fragment.

"Back to back!" barked Ginny, and the two nearly slammed their backs together, watching out for each other's blind spots. Ginny gave her own visual range a quick sweep before allowing a brief glance at Allan's bleeding shoulder. "Moore, sound off!" she ordered.

Allan scoffed irritably. "Bitch'll have to do better than that to take down Allan Moore!" he said confidently. He then paused before adding, "Hurts like hell, though. Don't worry, I'm not out of combat readiness just yet."

Ginny grinned. It was good to see that Allan wasn't too confident to admit being hurt. Many other soldiers had died due to such boasting. "Good to hear, Moore," she said pleasantly, resuming her scan of her environment. "Watch out for ripples in the air. She might be using Disillusionment charms to get a surprise attack in."

She felt Allan's body shift slightly as he nodded. "Got it," he acknowledged. "What if she's retreated, though?" he asked, trailing his rifle left to right, his trigger finger ready to pull back the moment he got a target.

Ginny considered that. What if Narcissa _did_ retreat? Did that mean she was more wounded than she had made it appear? Wouldn't _that_ be great news. Certainly, that'd give Ginny the time she needed to get rid of her subordinates' bomb...

Ginny froze. Her eyes shot towards where she had last seen the device in question.

'_Where's the bomb?'_

Ginny's eyes widened significantly as she turned violently on her heel to face Allan. "Moore, did you happen to see what happened to the bomb?"

Allan looked at her confusedly. "Bomb? What bomb?" he asked.

Ginny waved her arms around, describing its look to the soldier. "Oval-shaped, grey-purple colour, four spikes at the bottom to keep it upright...?" she told the soldier, who thought for a moment and then shook his head.

"Sorry, ma'am, but I haven't seen _anything_ that looks like what you just described."

Ginny was downright perplexed. She had _seen_ the bomb a ways away from where Allan and his men had engaged Narcissa. It had been sitting on its side about forty meters away from the fighting, and Allan and his men had never come within its blast parameters, given the lack of a blast crater, so there was no reason for the bomb to have disappeared completely for no visible reason.

'_I've got a __bad__ feeling about this...'_ she thought, thinking through all the different ways Narcissa could use such an explosive to make her life harder. Quick as lightning, she whipped out her wand and pressed it against her temple, seeking out Sulu's aides.

Once she established a connection, she quickly got down to business. "John, how much of the army is through the gate?" she asked via the connection.

There was a pause, which Ginny imagined was Sulu asking for the information, before Sulu's deep baritone voice replied, _"The entire army is through the gate, Ginny; myself as well."_

Ginny felt like sighing in relief. That was good news.

She paused her thoughts.

_Was_ it good news?

All of a sudden, Ginny was struck by a horrible feeling in her spine, as though her body was telling her that she had missed the obvious.

Certainly, if the enemy had detonated the devices during the Imperial Army's march into the valley, then the casualty rate would have been horrific. However, if the devices were detonated _after_ the army had crossed into the valley, that meant they were cornered.

Ginny swore explicitly, both out loud and over the communication link. She could hear the sounds of surprise from both Allan and Sulu, but she didn't care. She quickly turned on her heel, looking up at the valley entrance—specifically, the mountain sides that flanked the main gate.

"John!" she cried over the link, "Get the army to move forward! At least a mile in!"

"_What?_" came back Sulu's reply. _"What on earth for?"_

Ginny glared at the image of Sulu she had conjured up in her head. "There's an explosive device ready to be detonated on either of the main gate's flanks. The explosion will _bury_ whatever's beneath!"

Now the swearing was coming over from Sulu's side of the link, and mere moments later, Ginny could see dust clouds forming at the base of the main gate, no doubt a sign that the army was on the move, as per Ginny's request.

Now the redhead could only hope that her warning came soon enough.

* * *

_Hogwarts Main Gate..._

"MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"

Sulu was yelling himself hoarse as he motioned for the troops around him to get as far away from the main gate as they could at a sprint. Of course, everything had to be organized enough that the troops wouldn't end up trampling each other to death, but either way, Sulu needed them as far from the gate as possible _now_.

Not for the first time, Sulu wished that the Anti-tech ward had been brought down already. Having the Airship transports on hand would have made the situation entirely more easy; not to mention that having a few Airship batteries on hand would have made the issue of a detonating bomb bringing down the mountains on either side of the gate a moot point, since they would have just vaporised the surrounding are to ensure the army's safety.

More importantly, it would have meant the presence of fast-moving land vehicles—something that hadn't seen action in the Dark Wars for over ten years; the magical concentration of the battlefields was just too much for the vehicles to take. Recently, however, W&W Corp.'s Warfare R&D division had managed to put together a form of shielding on them, but only enough that they would function under non-warded situations. That sort of magical concentration was simply too high for any form of shielding.

So now Sulu was left with evacuating his men the old fashioned way—by foot.

"MOVE IT!" he roared, his baritone voice making his order sound only more intimidating and unquestionable. "MOVE THOSE LEGS, TROOPERS!"

Sulu had to guess a worst-case scenario of less than ten minutes to get his people out of danger, and he knew that wasn't enough time—not by a long shot. He needed maybe ten more minutes to get his front liners to reach the safe zone, and maybe five minutes more to get most of his men out of the danger zone. He himself could run a mile in five minutes, but the point was that if he pushed everyone to their max speed, he'd end up with a stampede rather than an orderly manoeuvre, which would likely end up with casualties.

Sulu noticed that a few of the sergeants had taken it onto themselves to stay behind as well, guiding their men forward with profanity-laced orders. Well, whatever it took to get the job done, right? In any case, it seemed like the brutal orders were doing their job—the men were sparing no time in high-tailing it out of Dodge. That would work in their favour, given the lack of time.

The youngest _ever_ General of the Imperial Armies (some might say, also the first) checked his timepiece. About four minutes had passed since Ginny had contacted him, and maybe thirty percent of his troops were nearing the safe zone, with more close behind—making Sulu's calculations way off target. At this pace, he and the rest of his people would have enough time to leave the area as well with time to spare.

Of course, Sulu was also no stranger to Murphy's damnable "law," and so was on constant alert for anything that could mess up his army's escape from the blast zone. Sulu clenched his jaw in irritation at the thought of his army having to do this at all. Why hadn't Ginny told him previously that there were explosives to begin with? He would have halted the assault until the devices were taken care of.

Sulu paused. Maybe that was why? Ginny knew that Sulu would stop the army's advance and didn't want him to do so, probably confident enough that her assassins would be able to handle the extra hazard. Plus, Sulu could admit that if he'd stopped the attack, the defenders would have undoubtedly figured out that the Imperials had sensed something afoot and taken further precautions with their devices.

The dark-skinned general looked up as he heard the cry of a bird. He could barely spot it, but recognized it enough to know that it looked like some sort of falcon. He was surprised, despite himself. Most wildlife, if not all, avoided battlefields like the plague. Yet this bird, for some reason, flew from beyond the gate—from whence the Imperial forces had come—and crossed right into the valley, proud and majestic in its flight.

A portent? Sulu liked to think so. The falcon—and eagles too, actually—were all iconic of the Empire. While the British lion was still number one in iconic symbolism, the bird of prey was also gaining a reputation for Imperial power; much like in Imperial Rome, in fact. Maybe it was an Empire thing.

In any case, it oddly gave Sulu a sliver of hope. It was an irrational belief, he knew, but somehow, just seeing the proud avian creature fly straight into the death-filled valley made something within him steel itself for the hardships ahead. Stiffening his back and sweeping his left hand outward, he reiterated his orders to the men.

"FORWARD!" he cried, his voice the voice of a proud and unshakeable commander of the Empire. "SOLDIERS OF THE EMPIRE, FORWARD!"

Maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe they each had their own reasons, but whatever the case might have been for it, the soldiers who heard Sulu's command seemed to draw their morale from his deep, baritone order.

The pace was picking up, and the last of the rear-line soldiers had moved at least half the necessary distance. It was time for him to leave. Nodding to the other people who had stayed behind to guide the flow of troopers forward, he tapped his right boot into the ground thrice before dashing forward, his posture immaculate and his speed fluid and rapid. Within a minute, he had caught up to the rear-most soldier.

Just in time, too, as his perception of the world around him suddenly lit up as though the sun were at high noon. Sulu didn't even need to turn around to know what had happened—the resounding blast from high on up told him enough. The bomb had gone off; just when Ginny said it would. No doubt, its perpetrator was furious at having lost the opportunity to bury most of the Imperial Army, but as a moderately gifted strategist himself, Sulu knew that _not_ burying the passageway into the valley would be even worse for the defenders. Effectively, although still alive, the Imperial Army was now cut off from supplies and reinforcements.

The sound of rock falling and crashing onto the gate told him to pick up the pace, and the dark-skinned general complied without a sound. Seeing their commander in such a hurry, the other men around him followed suit, pumping their arms up and down, weapons still in hand, as they high-tailed it out of the debris radius. Sure enough, within a few more minutes, they reached the main army, whose rear-line was simply standing there, watching their only way out of the valley get buried underneath a ridiculous amount of rock.

"Shit..." Sulu could hear one of the soldiers say through gritted teeth. None of the soldiers would admit it, but the fact that they were now trapped shook them drastically. They literally would have their backs against the wall now, and if they didn't manage to beat the enemy, there would be no retreat; only death.

Sulu wasn't about to let the situation degrade into mass panic, however. He hadn't been one of the Five Warlords for nothing, after all. Turning to his men after watching the rock fall settle at last, he swept out a hand imperiously, his piercing stare brooking no opposition to his next commands.

"All forces, back to the entrance!" he ordered, to the amazement of all.

Several officers pushed their way to the front upon hearing the order—likely in order to protest—but the troops were already mechanically forming ranks and marching back. The pace was slower than their run, but still quick enough to avoid combat with the golem army that was making its way towards them.

Sulu watched the cadre of officers nearing him with an impassive stare. He knew what their protests would sound like—in any other situation, he would have voiced similar ones to _his_ superiors, if he had any—but he could not afford dissent in his officer corps.

"Speak your minds, gentlemen," he ordered briskly. He wanted this over with as soon as possible.

The officers, having probably guessed that he would be unsure of his own decision, were struck by the total confidence in the British-African general's stare. This was the Congo Lord at his best, and they were quickly reminded of it. After a moment of indecision, during which Sulu's patience seemed to visibly wither, a lone, courageous Colonel stepped forward to voice his comrades' objections.

"General, if we move back to the debris field, we will leave ourselves with no room for manoeuvring once the enemy arrives to offer combat!" the Colonel stated plainly, his face long and grim. "We respectfully ask that you reconsider."

Sulu gazed at the man with some visible respect. He had been disappointed that his officers were so quickly cowed by his attitude towards the situation, but now felt some of that disappointment dissipate at the show of courage from this Colonel. He thus felt he owed the man a reason for his order.

"Colonel, if we fight in the open—even with our superior numbers—our casualties will be high," said Sulu gravely. "We are long passed the time when we lined up our men on the field of battle and exchanged volleys. We must not remember our pre-Coup teachings. We have a highly equipped and mobile army, and the debris field will provide plenty of natural cover for our men."

Sulu paused now, gazing at the slowly advancing enemy behind his retreating troops. He silently calculated their rate of movement before continuing his explanation. "Given my current calculations of the enemy's speed, we should be able to reach the area and set up at least some lines of defence before the enemy arrive to offer combat. Furthermore, since we held back many of our Shielders in the gate offence, we can have them dig up some trenches for the men. At very best, we shall be provided with ample cover."

Sulu once again paused, gazing at his officers critically. The Colonel seemed to have accepted his explanation, and was now looking at him with admiration. That seemed to be the reaction of most of the officers, but Sulu could see still a few disgruntled faces. Not surprising—not many remembered how war was fought before the Empire had first fallen. It had been so long, even Sulu himself had felt the need to brush up on modern tactics before attacking Hogwarts.

"Gentlemen, we cannot afford to bury our heads in the past," he rebuked the rebellious officers. "There was a time, yes, when we could afford to line up our troops and win despite the casualty rates, but that time has passed. Our weaponry has evolved since then, and it is no longer necessary to sacrifice our men needlessly. Thus, we will adapt our tactics to fit the situation; is that clear?"

Properly chastised, there was no more opposition from his officer corps as they all gave their assent and moved out to relay the general's orders. Sulu was once again left to himself—even his aides were running around, probably getting the men organised and readying them for redeployment.

Sulu gazed up at the darkened sky. Night had been falling for a few hours now, and the lack of sunlight, added to the vast expanse of cloud cover above, made for a very gloomy mood to the battle. He absently felt a breeze pick up, playing with his uniform as it made the loose ends of his greatcoat flap about.

When the attack finally came, Sulu knew it would be just as dark. His men would have to strain their nerves and alertness to be able to fight off what was likely to be a massive, wave after wave assault from the enemy forces.

His hands clasped behind his back, the dark-skinned general simply kept his gaze up at the sky—unconsciously hoping to see the bird of prey from earlier. It would certainly be reassuring. After a few minutes of absent gazing, he was snapped out of his thoughts by the feeling of someone tapping on his shoulder, and he quickly turned his head to see who it was. One of his aides. The resolute look on the young woman's face told him enough—the men were on their way and they were likely the last to leave.

Sulu gaze the gloomy sky one last glance before turning to his aide and nodding, straightening up his protective helmet as he did so. "Let's go."

Silently, the two walked briskly to catch up with the retreating body of Imperial troops.

* * *

Ginny was panting as she made her way towards where she had seen the bomb go off on the mountain side. She knew Narcissa had been responsible for the blast, and was only glad that the Imperial army was able to dodge the destructive effects of it in time. Other than that, Ginny was downright _pissed_.

Her laxity had allowed Narcissa to even make her way out of combat _with_ the device, when she shouldn't have been able to if she had done her job right. Worse was the fact that Ginny felt incredibly underarmed. She had lost both her retractable blades, and she had run out of ammunition for her two handguns. She had, _maybe_, a couple dozen throwing knives, but that was an optimistic estimate.

She couldn't well go and get rearmed, either. Assassin supplies were meant to be distributed strictly according to missions, so she had never once needed to abort her mission to get more weaponry. Unfortunately, they hadn't counted on something actually being able to take Ginny on one-on-one and settle it to a draw.

_'An arrogant mistake,'_ thought Ginny gloomily. How many times had Harry told her never to assume that there wasn't someone around to properly challenge her for the title of the best?

Behind her, she knew that Captain Moore was trying to keep up, but the soldier was quickly fading to a dot in the horizon as she dashed at full speed towards her prey. She appreciated the man's offer of assistance, but this was far beyond personal now. If only for her pride as _the_ Empire's master assassin, she needed to take down Narcissa on her own. Her pride, and the pride of the Imperial Assassins, demanded it.

_'Speaking of which...'_

Ginny deftly threw herself aside as a flurry of knives encrusted themselves in the ground she had, just seconds ago, been treading. Mid-flight, Ginny quickly drew two throwing knives and held them out in a reverse grip. Out of weaponry she might be, but whatever she had, she knew how to use them in any fashion she needed.

Sure enough, Narcissa Malfoy landed a few meters away from Ginny, already in a crouch and a handful of throwing knives in her outstretched hand as it reared back for another throw.

_'So she's not pulling any punches this time...'_ noted Ginny as she once again was forced to dodge the incoming knives with all the grace and agility that her profession demanded of her. In retaliation, she let loose two Concussion hexes via her outstretched left fist. Using her wand at this point would be detrimental to her own offensive abilities, even if the power of the spells would increase dramatically.

Besides, she just needed to magic in order to force Narcissa into making a mistake.

Ginny rolled on the ground sideways as she was forced to evade two retaliatory _Reductor_ curses, which made for quite the amazing craters in the ground. Narcissa was obviously no magical slouch—her spells each seemed to have the power of a condensed ME round. That posed a problem for the petite redhead.

Ginny knew a direct hit would cause massive damage to her small body, whereas her own magical strikes would do considerably less. It essentially cemented Ginny's tactics—dodge until Narcissa made a mistake, then strike physically.

"Stop jumping around, you little rabbit!" snapped Narcissa as she let loose another barrage of knives.

Ginny swiftly side-stepped the incoming projectiles and, pressing her rear foot deep against the soggy ground, launched herself forward at full speed, quickly closing the distance between Narcissa and her before the blonde could throw more knives.

As planned, the older woman drew her own knives and brought them up to block Ginny's strikes. Quickly, Ginny was pushed off of Narcissa and the two began a deadly dance around each other, slashing, stabbing, and parrying as needed. They twirled around each other with the grace of ballerinas, lashing out as often as they both could, only to find their counterpart ready for the blow and waiting with a retaliatory strike.

Eventually, it was Narcissa that broke their little dance by suddenly kicking out at Ginny following a blocked slash. Ginny was no amateur, however, and easily blocked the blow, using the blocked leg to push her lower body into a sweeping move that Ginny hoped would throw the blonde off guard.

For a second, it worked. Narcissa was obviously surprised by the ingenious follow-up, but was no slouch either and, letting go of her knives, brought her arms down beneath her head and pushed herself away from her opponent in an amazing impromptu back flip, barely avoiding getting cut in two by Ginny's follow up strike. The look of utter surprise on the redhead's face was matched by a smug smirk from the blonde aristocrat as, for a second, both Narcissa and Ginny's eyes reached the same height level.

The moment quickly passed, however, and soon enough Ginny and Narcissa were once again at each other's throats. Having launched themselves at each other, the two met halfway, hands clasped against their counterpart as the struggle devolved into a primitive test of strength. Narcissa was taller, but Ginny was scrappier, so whatever advantage one had, the other was able to counter, leaving the two women glaring at each other, teeth grit as they pushed against their opponent with all their might. Small mounds of mud were building up behind their feet as the force of each other's strength pushed them down into the mud and away from each other.

Neither woman was about to give up, however, and they were so focused on beating the other that they had both thought of the same thing and, in a desperate bid to win the battle of strength, slammed their heads together, only to find that the other had done the same, thereby extending the contest of strength to their necks as well.

Trickles of blood flowed down their foreheads, however, as the impact of the two foreheads became apparent, yet neither woman let go of the other's gaze.

"Insolent insect!" hissed Narcissa, her face's pale skin obscured by the presence of muck and her own blood.

"Pesky whore!" snapped back Ginny, her own skin a mix of red and brown—blood and mud.

Fire blazed in both women's eyes as anger surged through their systems, and the two once again renewed their efforts in winning this particular contest. Neither side budged. The logical step, at this point, would be to quickly disengage and take advantage of the opponent's surprise, and both women knew it. Yet, neither side was about to give up in this symbolic contest of Imperial authority versus Magical supremacy.

"My Lord will kill you all," promised Narcissa through her gritted teeth. "And I'll be there to enjoy the scene!"

Ginny scoffed, a cocky smirk on her muddied face. "Please. You're all as pathetic as your cause!" she taunted.

Narcissa's eyes flashed with anger, and Ginny could feel a build-up of magical power increasing in the blonde's hands.

_'So she's playing that game, huh...'_ she scoffed irritably. Her own magical reserves would near depletion soon if this fight dragged on this way, and she knew Narcissa's own reserves were significantly larger than her own.

Quickly thinking up of a plan, Ginny did not match Narcissa's own build-up of magic in her hands. Instead, she gathered a scalpel-sharp amount of magic in her hands and, before the blonde had a chance to unleash the explosion that Ginny expected, sent it surging from her hands and into Narcissa's.

There was a sharp cry of pain before a thin spray of blood from the back of Narcissa's hands jetted out, smearing her face with her own blood. Two razor-thin ,red lines had appeared on the back of the blonde's hands, where Ginny's surgical strike had cut right through, like a hot knife through butter.

Instinctively, the blonde withdrew her hands and placed them under her armpits, protecting the wounds from further damage—all the while jumping backwards to avoid a follow up attack. That was incredibly wise of her, as Ginny had followed up with a densely-packed magical punch aimed at decapitating the older woman. Instead, the redhead missed and ended up hitting nothing but air.

For a moment, neither women moved, both of them processing their respective situations and rationalising a due course of action.

For Ginny, it was simple. She couldn't win—not anymore, anyway. While the twin surgical strikes had not taken much effort to perform, the magical punch _had_. Her magical reserves were quickly dwindling to zero, and all she had left would be barely enough to get her out of her current fight—_if_ Narcissa didn't give chase.

For Narcissa, however, it was a little more complicated. She still had enough magic to attack _maybe_ twice more, if the attacks were both average-powered, but after that she'd be fast approaching magical exhaustion, which would leave her to the mercy of whoever came across her unconscious body firs—that was not acceptable. Furthermore, she had not fulfilled her mission, mainly due to her own selfish need for vengeance (and she accepted this); her master would not be pleased. On the other hand, however, he had explicitly told her not to put herself in undue risk. One on one combat with a worthy opponent was alright so long as escape was possible thereafter. Her master did not have as many servants as he once did—human servants, at least. He didn't want to lose one of three he _did _have, as a result.

Eventually, it was Narcissa that broke first. She had no idea how much more the scrappy redhead could take, and wasn't about to risk capture just to find out. Scoffing in irritation, Narcissa shot her arm into her robes and, grasping on something, vanished the next second from sight.

Ginny was left shocked at her opponent's sudden disappearing act. She had fully expected Narcissa to keep fighting to the death. Instead, she had been granted an unexpected boon, and she fully intended to take advantage of it.

"Assassin Mistress!" she suddenly heard someone calling. Ginny turned around and watched, a small smile on her face, as her most recent companion, Captain Moore, came running up towards her, his rifle-wielding arms pumping up and down as he sped towards the woman he considered his ward.

When she caught a better look at his face, however, Ginny's amusement melted into concern. He looked positively exhausted, the poor man! He had sweat rolling off his face like a cascade, which told Ginny that he'd probably refused to slow down his pace until he reached her. A foolish, if touching move.

Allan practically collapsed upon reaching Ginny. His fatigue had reached such a point that he fully missed a step and slipped in the fresh mud, landing face first in the mucky ground and slid to a halt at Ginny's feet, his rifle still nonetheless clenched tightly in his left hand. He was breathing heavily as he lay on the ground, and barely felt Ginny turning him onto his back, except for noting that he was suddenly able to breathe easier. He was barely conscious when she cradled him on her bent legs.

"You alright there, Moore?" asked Ginny with a slightly amused smile. She wiped a bit of the mud off Moore's face, and grinned when she saw a tired, but confident smile underneath the mud.

"It'll take a lot more than that to bring Allan Moore down, ma'am," he said with confidence, although it was clear just by his voice that he was on the verge of losing consciousness.

Ginny couldn't help but giggle at the man's bravado, and let him rest on her knees until she was sure he was out like a light. Then, taking great care not to wake him, Ginny pumped some magic into her body and quickly lifted the much larger man onto her back, carrying him piggy-back.

She glanced behind her at the sleeping face of Moore and couldn't help the fond smile on her face from blooming. The man had risked a lot to come help her, and she truly appreciated it. She'd have to talk to Harry about properly rewarding the man for his bravery.

That was when Ginny heard the boom.

Like a bomb going off at close range, it almost deafened her, and it was a sheer miracle that Moore was not woken by its intensity. Unlike a bomb, however, there was no destruction following the auditory burst of noise. Instead, the whole grounds were suddenly awash with strobing light flashes that varied in colour.

Looking up, Ginny saw the sky lit up by something that resembled an aurora borealis, and she suddenly understood what had caused the explosive noise. She let a happy and proud grin light her face.

"You did it, Bill," she whispered to herself.

With now renewed urgency, knowing what was to come, Ginny looked towards where the main gate of the Hogwarts Grounds used to be. Taking a deep breath and, her face scrunched up in concentration, she rocketed off towards her awaiting and cheering comrades.

* * *

_Post-AN: As always, please review and tell me if something's inconsistent with previous chapters or even just to say you liked it. Always gets me in a great mood when I read those. - MB_


	43. Chapter XXXVI: The Reasons Why

_AN: Sorry to all those of you who wanted an action chapter. This one's a Bill/Fleur, Elizabeth, and ex-Order centric chapter. Lots of action planned in the next one, though. - MB  
_

* * *

_HMAS Invincible_

Bill exhaustedly flopped down onto the couch in the Officer's Lounge with a satisfied grin on his face. He had reason to, too; after all, it's not just anyone who can say that they had almost single-handedly taken down a Hogwarts ward.

"_Gods_, that nearly killed me!" he exclaimed dramatically before bursting into laughter. As a curse breaker, this would have probably been the height of his career. As it stood now, though, it was just another task he had set himself out to do. Still, it was enormously satisfying to know that he could, with time and effort, take down even one of the famed protective wards of Hogwarts.

Sitting in a comfortable, high-backed chair nearby, his assistant, Fleur, rolled her eyes at her boss' exaggerated performance. It was _her_ who felt exhausted. Throughout the whole process, she had been wanting to simply drop unconscious on the platform and just sleep, while her boss had kept going without blinking at the effort it was taking the two skilled magicians to take down the _considerably_ tough ward. It had even taken a few hours longer than Bill had predicted, which had initially irritated the Imperial scientist enormously—although that seemed to have evaporated when the ward finally _did_ fall.

So now the two had been granted leave to recuperate from their harrowing ordeal. Sure, it wasn't exactly dodging bullets and/or assaulting fixed positions, but the two had nonetheless scored a major victory for the Empire. With the ward up, Riddle's forces would be able to hunker down behind their walls and the castle without having to fear airborne assaults. The Hogwarts Anti-Technological ward was simply too strong for an Airship's typical shielding, much less a fighter jet's shielding. Blasting at the ward would have also taken inordinate amount of time and ammunition, neither of which the Empire was willing to waste on something that two brilliant, skilled, and accomplished magicians could take down with enough preparations.

Glancing around lazily, Bill noticed that he and Fleur had been left alone in the lounge. Wolf, he knew, had opted to go back to the bridge, but he had somewhat expected some random aide to stay behind, in case Bill or Fleur needed anything. It was odd, but nothing worrying.

Instead of worrying on this non-problem, Bill decided to turn his attention to his assistant. She had done well during the ward breaking, and he was mighty pleased with her. Her exhaustion had not gone unnoticed by the redhead, but every time he was about to tell her to go rest, she seemed to rally herself and press on tenaciously. It was admirable, if perhaps unhealthy. Nonetheless, she had his admiration now—heck, he was beginning to think that maybe being his assistant was holding back her potential as a researcher and as an intellectual in general.

Bill furrowed his brow. Had he considered this before? He honestly couldn't remember; he was absent-minded like that when work came into question. Either way, Bill wasn't one for pointless musings. If he was curious about something, he did his utmost best to figure it out. Hence, he decided to go right to the probably most knowledgeable person on the issue.

"Hey, Fleur?" he said, turning his head to meet her curious gaze. "Have I ever brought up possibly promoting you?"

Fleur seemed surprised at the question, so Bill tentatively hypothesized a negative answer. He almost instantly recanted that opinion when she began to nod.

"Several times, Mister Weasley," she informed him, giving him a wry smile. "I had assumed that you'd changed your mind each time."

Now it was Bill's turn to be surprised. So he _had_ broached the topic before. Man, his social skills _sucked_. Whatever had happened to smooth, socially savvy Bill Weasley from Hogwarts? The guy so popular and so cool that girls had to _line up_ to go on a date with him?

Well, no matter. The past is past. The eldest Weasley son instead decided to make up for his past social mishaps by putting things to right here and now, when he wasn't distracted by some shiny project.

"Then I'm unofficially promoting you as of this moment, Fleur," he told her seriously. "You've earned it, and it's not fair of me to keep holding you back due to my own lack of awareness."

Fleur actually giggled at his self-deprecating comment, despite how serious he was. She waved off the implied apology with her hand and smiled contently at him.

"It's been no trouble at all, Mister Weasley," she assured him. "After all, it's been quite the experience working alongside one of the Empire's most brilliant and renowned minds." She smiled mischievously then. "Besides, who would keep your schedule organized if I wasn't around?"

Bill actually looked stumped at that off-hand comment of hers. The fact that he had failed to promote Fleur for a while now had been a real eye opener to his own total lack of environmental awareness—how _would_ he survive without someone to keep him on track and organized? An uneasy feeling came over Bill, and he started to fidget nervously on the couch, shooting Fleur several apologetic looks before each time turning away in shame.

"Say, err…Fleur…?" he started. "Would you terribly mind…err…umm…"

Fleur waited patiently for Bill to garner his courage to give her his request, but merely saw the most brilliant mind in the Empire falter as the words seemed to fail him. Thus, after about five minutes of stuttering, Fleur rolled her eyes and stood up.

"_Bon dieu!_" she exclaimed in French. "It's not that hard, Mister Weasley! Yes, I _will_ stay with you as your assistant," she told him with a wry smile.

Bill sagged in relief as Fleur co-opted his question and answered it in the same breath. Man, he really had to work on his social skills again, didn't he? He hadn't stuttered before a girl in _decades_. At least, not that he remembered. Which wasn't saying much.

Letting his head fall back onto the couch's soft cushions, Bill decided to relax, now that the most pressing issue at hand had been taken care of. Said rest, however, was quickly swept away when the door to the lounge hissed as its mechanisms sprung to life, and quickly slid to the side. Though he lifted his head to see who was coming to join both him and Fleur, the glare from the hallway lights outside blinded his view of the person at the door. All he could tell was that whoever it was, they possessed a feminine figure. Bill observed as the person's head shifted slightly—an indication of one's mouth opening.

"Mister Weasley," came the soft greeting, and both Bill and Fleur knew immediately who it was.

The scientist duo quickly got to the carpeted floor of the lounge and took a knee in obeisance as they were graced with the presence of their sovereign, Queen Elizabeth III. With the lack of energy that the two had, they must have looked somewhat pathetic to their Queen, but neither cared. This was the woman who had lit a world on fire with her mere presence—who had inspired the shattered remnants of the British Empire to come together and forge itself into a mightier Empire than it had ever been before. This was not a woman to disrespect, dishonour, underestimate, or dismiss. Her enemies were almost all dead, victims of furious Imperial retribution—her assailants were condemned to oblivion as nameless faces that would never be mentioned in history books, merely shown in photographs as examples of a deceased way of thinking.

It was a very real maxim in these new times that he who crossed the Queen of the British Empire would soon become acquainted with Death.

Elizabeth took a step forward into the lounge and raised a pale hand to stop her guards from doing the same. Her pale, delicate neck turned slightly so that her left-most eye could glance at one of the guards.

"It's alright. I am among friends," she told them, her tone brooking no protest. "Please wait outside."

Without a word said, the two crimson-clad guards saluted their charge with a fist to their heart and a simultaneous bow before stepping back into the hallway and allowing the door to slide back into its closed position.

There was a moment of silence before Elizabeth looked at the kneeling figure of Fleur and a flash of sincere surprise came across her face.

"Oh, my apologies! I do not know your name," she said apologetically as she neared Fleur's kneeling figure and, with her thin arms, prodded for the blonde beauty to rise. "Please, rise and rest, the both of you. You must be tired after your hard task."

Gratefully, the two scientist magicians got to their feet—Fleur blushing as the Queen's soft hands still on her arms. Only then were they able to fully take in the Queen's appearance.

Contrary to her Harrisburg wardrobe of soft colours, Elizabeth seemed to have decided to darken the tone of her vestments during this campaign. Gone were the blues and yellows—her entire wardrobe was a combination of black and red, with white lace at the cuffs, giving her a decidedly dark, gothic, and yet delicate and sensuous look. She looked like the personification of death, sacrifice, and virtue, all at the same time, which seemed like an interesting paradox in themes to the two scientists.

Having retreated her arms from Fleur's, Elizabeth's thin arms disappeared beneath the heavy-looking, imperial crimson cloak hefted on her shoulders. Bill was amazed to see that the dark, brooding, and vengeful look she had carried in Harrisburg—always a source of reprimand from her closest advisors (for fear it would make potential husbands flee in terror)—had now been shorn in favour of a sort of refined, Imperial elegance. Just by looking at her, Bill could not have guessed that she was still only 16 years old. Rather, she looked 20, and her garment added another two years to that. The only _real_ sign of her Royal status was the golden tiara that held together the elaborate coiffure her long, dark red hair had been made into.

"Are you here for your check-up, Your Majesty?" asked Bill as submissively as he could without sounding like the eager scientist he really was. Were it not for her Royal status, and the fact that she was a family and personal friend, Bill would have seen her as nothing more than another test subject.

Nonetheless, he was pleased when the Queen nodded once. "Excellent," he said with a smile, before motioning for Elizabeth to sit. As she did so, Bill raised a hand and snapped his fingers, prompting Fleur to move forward without any further need for instructions.

"Please prepare the room for extraordinary testing procedures," he requested immediately as Fleur stepped forward. "No need to seal it entirely—just make sure that the section I'm working in is as clean as magically possible."

Fleur nodded once and immediately got to her task, wand in hand. She needed no explanation for the unusual order. If it dealt with the Queen, then it was likely that it was _way_ over her security clearance—and Fleur had one of the highest possible. Heck, she half-expected Bill to throw her out of the room the moment she was done with the quarantine procedure.

Meanwhile, Bill and Elizabeth were quietly communing; the redheaded monarch was staring at Bill with sharp, intelligent eyes, and yet Bill seemed unfazed.

"…I understand your concerns, Your Majesty," he told her seriously. "However, please believe me that such symptoms are not proof of side-effects from the procedure. No such symptoms were found in the test subjects," he explained.

"You're certain?" Elizabeth asked again.

Bill nodded. "Your Majesty, we went over every theoretical possibility when we created this project. We left no avenue of thought unexplored. Every possible side-effect was researched extensively and nothing of the kind you are describing to me ever came up."

Bill took in a deep breath before continuing. "When we approached Your Majesty with the possibility of becoming the first, true beneficiary of the project, we only did so after we had achieved ninety-nine-point-ninety-nine percent surety in the results. I would say we'd reached one hundred percent surety, but as a scientist, I refuse to believe in the infallible. The point being, Your Majesty, that we dared not consider putting you through the procedure until we were absolutely certain that we knew what we were getting into."

Elizabeth nodded. "I see. That does a lot to put my worries at rest, Mister Weasley."

Bill smiled. "Worries aside, Majesty, how are you finding the benefits?"

Elizabeth smiled then, and it struck Bill how beautiful the young British monarch had become. It was as though her whole countenance had lit up, accentuating her looks enormously. "It's simply wonderful!" she said with excitement—or, at least, as much as her collected, Imperial presence permitted. "The things I'm able to do now, it's…it's…"

"Wonderful?" Bill suggested teasingly, prompting Elizabeth to let out a giggle, though most of it was muffled by her gloved fist. It was very cute, Bill thought.

"Indeed," she agreed after she had calmed herself.

"Well, it's not surprising," noted Bill as he leaned his head onto his fist, legs now crossed. "I imagine it's quite like how the first human being must have felt when he or she realized the usefulness of opposable thumbs."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at the comparison. "Are you suggesting I'm the same as an primitive member of our species, Mister Weasley?" she asked archly.

Bill grinned unrepentantly. "The comparison was merely figurative, not literal, Your Majesty," he corrected. "And, in any case, the same feeling of wonderment stands, I would suppose."

Elizabeth dropped her mildly offended act and smiled genuinely. "Indeed. It is truly out of this world," she agreed, before the figure of Fleur, hard at work, caught her eye. She glanced back at Bill wonderingly. "Have you told her?" she asked in a low voice.

Bill silently shook his head, and a look of consternation crossed Elizabeth's face. "Why ever not?" she asked, surprised. "Her performance during the ward takedown seems to suggest enormous skill on her part, does it not?"

Bill shrugged. "She has certainly earned the promotion I want to give her," he agreed. "And her theoretical knowledge is on par with most of our theoreticians, but I'm not sure where she stands on the issue of genetic tampering," he confessed. "And I'd much rather not potentially harm such a brilliant mind with an Obliviate if I can help it."

Elizabeth sat back in her chair pensively. It was a sound argument, she supposed. "And your family?" she inquired. "Do they know what you are doing?"

Bill raised a curious eyebrow. "Charlie, Ginny and the twins? Certainly. They're main backers in the operation, after all. You know this," he stated.

Elizabeth frowned at him. "I meant your parents, Mister Weasley. Your estranged brothers as well."

It was now Bill's turn to frown. "Why should they know?" he asked curtly. "Ron and his wife were given the public tour, as is their right as British citizens, probationary though their citizenship may be. They need not know anything else."

"They are your family, whether you are ashamed of them or not," she pointed out.

Bill scowled—not at her, but at the idea of his estranged family. "By blood, perhaps," he conceded at length. "However, they refused, and as I hear, still refuse to see that the Empire is the natural evolution of mankind. They bury their heads in the sand, refusing to join the march of time, and content themselves with consorting with shadows of times past."

Elizabeth stared at Bill in silent contemplation. "You're quite the social Darwinist, aren't you, Mister Weasley?"

Bill shrugged, his free hand held up before his eyes, as though he was inspecting his nails—he wasn't, not really. "I don't quite buy into the whole survival of the fittest, to be honest, and race has very little weight with me," he told her frankly. "But I'll admit there _are_ some parts of the philosophy that appeal to me."

Whatever Elizabeth was going to say then, she suddenly stopped herself and, via eye contact, motioned for Bill to look behind him. As Bill did, he saw Fleur standing there, an obedient look on her face and her posture submissive. From the fact that she wasn't working, he surmised that she had finished her task.

Bill nodded gratefully at her, giving her a bright smile. "Thank you, Fleur," he thanked her. "If it's not too much trouble, would you mind going to check up on the reinforcements we're sending down?" he half-requested, half-ordered.

Fleur took the hint and, bowing respectfully before Elizabeth with her delicate hand on her heart, she showed herself out of the room, leaving Bill and Elizabeth alone. Within seconds of his assistant's departure, Bill was on his feet and, with a snap of his fingers, his wand was in his hand.

He then took a cubic object from his pocket and threw it up into the air, followed by a wand swish towards it. Instantly, the cubic object, no bigger than half the length of Bill's thumb, expanded until it was a waist-high wooden crate. With another flick, the lid was off, and its insides were revealed. A clutter of equipment lay firmly packed inside, and with another move of his wand, all of it—much more than the crate seemed capable of carrying, flew out and arranged itself as Bill willed it.

In seconds, the redheaded scientist had a fully functioning examination room set up within the lounge. Surrounded by dozens of medical instruments was a hospital bed, which Bill motioned Elizabeth to lay down on.

"You know the drill, Your Majesty," he said affably, even as his scientist persona took over. "Do you desire privacy while you change into your gown?"

Elizabeth shrugged off her heavy crimson cloak, leaving her in her black and red dress. "You have seen me naked enough times for that particular nuisance to become irrelevant to me, Mister Weasley," she said plainly as she gently pulled off her elbow-length black gloves.

Accepting her observation tacitly, Bill moved behind Elizabeth and helped her undo the knots that held the whole dress together. With expert tact, he quickly unravelled the seven knots, instinctively causing Elizabeth's frame to heave slightly as she suddenly felt it easier to breathe. With a shrug, the dress fell to her feet, and Bill, despite his Queen's permission to stay, nonetheless averted his eyes from her near-naked figure. All that the Queen had left now were her panties, and scientist though he was—meaning he had clinical appreciation of the Queen's figure—he nonetheless was first a British citizen; looking upon the monarch's naked body was, in his mind, reserved only for whomever she chose as her husband. Whenever he _had_ to look at her naked figure, however, he made sure to crush any male instincts he had and focus entirely on clinical, scientific considerations.

_Now, if __Fleur__ were the one stripping down…_

Bill blinked, somewhat surprised by that stray thought. Was he feeling affection for his assistant? That is, affection beyond the acceptable limits of an employer-employee relationship? Such a thing could prove a nuisance, especially if he wanted to keep her around; not that he had any reason to consider this being the case, however. It could just be a typical male, hormonal response to women with nice figures.

A ruffling of clothing snapped Bill from his reverie, and he returned his gaze onto the Queen, who was now sporting a very loose hospital gown. Bill was thankful for the gown's looseness—it helped him avoid fantasizing since none of the Queen's otherwise womanly attributes would become readily apparent.

Instead of dwelling on such thoughts, Bill forced himself into his scientific mindset, and quickly materialized both a medical chart and a tray of tools beside the Queen's hospital bed, where she had daintily laid down.

"You know the drill, Your Majesty," he told her softly, even as he lifted a hypodermic syringe. "First a blood sample, then we move into the physical portions of the check-up."

From her lying position on the bed, already eyeing the needle somewhat nervously, Elizabeth nodded firmly. "I know."

With a silent nod of acknowledgement, Bill snapped his fingers and instantly, bindings sprung up at the sides of the bed, quickly fastening themselves around Elizabeth's wrists and legs to prevent her from moving, just in case.

"As always, please forgive me for using such barbaric means of restraint, Your Majesty," Bill said earnestly, even as he moved forward with the syringe, already looking for a suitable vein in her right arm.

Elizabeth smiled, despite her growing anxiousness. She really hated this part of the examinations. It reminded her too much of her time in a Death Eater jail. "And as always, you are forgiven, Mister Weasley."

With another nod, Bill tapped her arm five times at different spots before he found a suitable vein. Then, without so much as a glance towards the Queen's face, he brought down the needle and with it pierced her skin until he'd reached the vein. He quickly put aside the realization that she'd bit down on a whimper and continued his work, quietly and quickly extracting the sample he needed before then drawing out the needle—itself glistening red from the penetration. With a wave of his hand, the puncture wound magically sealed off, and Elizabeth was left breathing heavily—but to her credit, she never once cried out.

While the blood work was being done on the sample, Bill decided to continue with the tests, going over her physical measurements and superficial changes—such as growth and weight. As he did so, a nagging question that had been pestering his mind since the expedition began came to the front of his mind, and he decided this was probably as good as time as any to ask it.

"Your Majesty, may I ask you something frankly?" he asked politely, despite never stopping in his work.

Elizabeth looked at Bill silently for a moment before nodding once. "Speak your mind, Mister Weasley."

Bill accepted her permission silently, but he did not ask right away. Rather, he took a moment to formulate the question appropriately before letting it leave his mouth.

"Majesty, why did you come on this expedition?" he asked bluntly.

Glancing up at her face, Bill saw a faint smile gracing her lips. "I had a feeling that would be your question, Mister Weasley," she admitted, before answering his query. "To be honest, Mister Weasley, I don't know why I came. At first, I suppose it was a willingness to see what exactly I was sending my own men into every time I signed a formal permission to carry out a military expedition. Then, I reasoned that it was probably because I was sick and tired of palace life, and wanted to get out—breathe a little."

Bill let the Queen speak in silence, never once stopping his tests as she got everything off her chest.

"Somewhere along the way I figured maybe I just wanted to break out of the role Harry put me in when he restored the throne; rebel a little, you know?" she didn't even glance to see if Bill agreed or not. Instead, she kept going. "There's a part of me, however, that knows none of those are really true. Well, not totally true, anyway."

Elizabeth dropped her head, then, allowing a curtain of crimson hair to hide her face from Bill's scrutiny. Simultaneously, her small, soft and delicate hands curled into tight, pale fists on her lap. "The truth hit me during the siege on the Main Gate," she told him finally. "As I heard the news filter into the Airships during the assault, I realized that I had come because I felt ashamed."

Bill's only reaction to that announcement was a split-second stop in his tests before he quickly rallied himself and continued. Somehow, it seemed spur on the Queen to continue her confession.

"I realized that sitting on my throne, all the way in Harrisburg, I had never been with my people on the most dangerous of places—the front line. How many orders have I signed to send armies into combat? How many generals begged me to grant permission for some assault? How many thousands cheered my name seconds before they were cut down like _animals_!?"

Finally stopping his tests altogether—over 90% of them were done, anyway—he noticed a small pool of moisture on the Queen's gown over her lap and on the back of her curled fists. She was crying.

"Majesty…" he began, but failed to find the appropriate words to comfort the young monarch.

"After Panama," she continued, and Bill could now truly hear the sadness in her voice. "After Panama, I had nightmares for months. I could hear my guards' dying screams every time I closed my eyes. Then, after Harrisburg, it got worse. It wasn't just the guards now; I could hear thousands of men and women—children, too—screaming as they died."

Bill stayed silent, deciding that letting her get this out of her system was probably the most therapeutic thing he could do.

"I realized then that I had never seen what I sent my people into," she continued after taking in a deep breath. "To me, the places; the battles—they were all scribbles on some piece of embossed paper. The casualties were all numbers to me—the suffering mere abstracts and tangents in some regular military report."

'_So she's suffering from the dehumanization of warfare…'_ analyzed Bill. _'At her age, it's not surprising that it would drive her insane.'_

"I wanted to see," she said suddenly after having paused for bit. "I wanted to see exactly what I was making my people fight against. I wanted to see the battlefields, maybe even _earn_ my place in the hearts of my people."

Bill had an uneasy feeling now. "Majesty, surely you are not suggesting you actually go _down_ there?" he asked, making sure that he hadn't concluded wrong.

Not for the first time, Bill hated being right. "I do," she confirmed with a curt nod.

Bill said nothing. What could he possibly say to detract her? Furthermore, anything he suggested had little weight, politically speaking. He was, despite offers to change that, still a commoner. If he really wanted to change her mind, he would have spoken to Harry about convincing her otherwise. Unfortunately, Harry was in something like a coma, so there was no way to reach him.

In fact, did the Queen even know about Harry?

Bill considered asking her, but decided against it. Bill had his suspicions that the Queen had unresolved issues with Harry, and informing her (if he was) of his present state could have severe repercussions. Instead, he wordlessly got back up on his feet and continued his tests in silence.

After a dozen or so minutes of such testing, he was finally finished. Walking over to the variety of machinery that was analyzing Elizabeth's blood sample, he snatched the computer readout as it was finishing printing and read the results. Exactly within his expectations. Truly, the Queen was his most magnificent test subject.

"Perfect results, Your Majesty," he announced out loud with a smile. He had the expression of a scientist that had just made a major breakthrough—though nowhere near as expressive about it.

Elizabeth simply nodded at the announcement, clearly noticing his lack of response to her desire to join the battlefield. She didn't have to be a mind reader to know that Bill would never support such a move. She wondered if Harry would. Oddly enough, she had not seen him—apparently, the bridge had been sealed off to anyone not immediately participating in the battle planning. Out of respect for him, she had decided not to press the issue. Countermanding his orders before his subordinates would undoubtedly anger Harry, and that was something she _never_ wanted to go through.

As the thought of an angry Harry infested her mind, she quietly got off the hospital bed and began the long and arduous procedure of dressing up again. Bill was kind enough to assist once again, though the whole process was carried out in full silence. She knew that Bill was miffed at her desire to join the battlefield, so she didn't call him out on that. After all, the reason that Bill was not part of her new aristocracy was because he had personally refused the honour every single time, citing that he had no wish to become a victim of political intrigue, which he had no doubt the aristocracy would eventually become embroiled in. Still, the very fact that he was constantly considered a perfect candidate for promotion to aristocratic status meant that she had a very high opinion of him.

Getting dressed took considerable more time than getting undressed. So many accessories had to be put on her and then tied to the main dress that Bill and her were at it for about half an hour before she finally had the crimson mantle of her Imperial position hefted onto her shoulders, the golden cord that held it together hanging just over her breasts. Her hair was another matter entirely. Having loosened it so as to more comfortably lie on the hospital bed, it now either hung straight down her back or cascaded over her shoulders and onto her front. It was then that Bill noticed just how long her hair was.

The intricate hairstyle she had been sporting had covered up the fact that her hair now reached her buttocks. Comparatively, when she had been recovered from the Death Eater jail, her hair had been cut down to nape length. Bill wondered how to broach the topic of doing her hair—he was no hair stylist, after all, and he doubted she could comb it by herself.

"Majesty," he started, "about your hair style…"

Elizabeth cast an amused look at Bill before snapping her fingers—just like he had previously—and instantly, her hair contorted and flew every which way until it had resettled into the intricate hair design she had previously sported. Bill was suitably impressed.

"Such control," he breathed, honestly amazed. He had never expected her ability to progress this fast. "Majesty…you are without doubt the testament to the success of our project! Our very own goddess of victory, our very first!"

Elizabeth smiled, acknowledging the compliment, but Bill wasn't done.

"Our glorious Empire's first _Valkyrie_."

* * *

_HMS Invincible_, Prison Level, Mess Hall…

A loud crash rang in the room as a ceramic plate crashed against the metallic walls of the Mess Hall.

"_GOD DAMNIT!_"

Former Auror Frank Longbottom scoffed as he lazily watched Ron Weasley vent his anger by throwing what eating utensils the Imperials had given them at the wall. The boy—for he would always see the young man as a boy until he got a grip on his emotions and matured—was on his fifth plate already, and there were only four left—including his own. Now _that _one the boy would not get.

Not that he didn't sympathize with the redheaded child of Arthur and Molly Weasley. He was quite miffed himself at the fact that he had been kidnapped from his home in the middle of the night. Still, that didn't mean he'd lose his head over it. Instead, he had calmly observed his surroundings as they changed over and over again, until they had finally settled with this mess hall. It didn't take a genius to figure out that it was originally meant for prisoners—the dull lack of colour and uniformity of _all_ the metallic furniture in the room made that readily apparent.

Still, he wondered _why_ they had been taken from their homes and kept in this room. They didn't have cells, either; they were simply confined to this one room. It was curious, and he noted that several of the more level-headed people among them had also noticed, such as Hermione Granger-Weasley, Arthur Weasley, and Alastor Moody. Notably, those were also people who still had a plate.

A low growl caught Frank's attention, and he instantly knew it to come from Moody. No one else could pull off such a guttural growl. Obviously, it was also a sign of significant irritation when dealing with the man. Frank wasn't in the mood to hear the man's imminent tirade, however, and so silenced any coming reprimand by laying a rough hand on the ex-Auror's gnarled shoulders.

"Not now, Alastor," he said softly, his gesture immediately forcing the older man to harrumph and yet stay quiet. Instead, the retired Auror turned to the boy's father and glared.

"That boy is getting on my nerves, Weasley," growled Moody to the redhead's father, who was, with his daughter-in-law, sitting with Frank and Moody. The others were simply too hot-headed for their patience.

Arthur sighed in resignation. "There's nothing I can do or say to stop him right now, Alastor," he said resignedly. "He's never liked the Empire, and getting put on probation, then expelled from its military for the Empire's Helm fiasco merely fuelled that dislike."

Hermione nodded sadly. "Ron hates that he's lost," she added, catching the attention of the three senior men she was sitting with. "He's on Dumbledore's side, remember? I think we can admit by now that in the fight between the Empire and us, we lost," she concluded seriously.

The three men nodded slowly, making sure that the other, more volatile members of their little group couldn't hear them. Any such admission could set them off.

Seeing her companions agreeing with her, she continued. "The end result is that Ron has to live in a world not of his own choosing, one that rejects everything he believes in. In our world, he was special because of his ancestry and ability to use magic. In the Empire's world, he's a common man, or less."

All four descended into silence as that last thought penetrated their conscious. All of them were probationary citizens of the Empire, meaning they were still subject to an enormous amount of limitations. They were not denied justice or protection from the law, but they were also not protected from summary arrests, as their current predicament demonstrated.

"To be fair, we kind of deserve it," mumbled Arthur. "We're lucky enough that our contribution in the fight in Harrisburg earned us probationary citizen status. If we hadn't helped…" the Weasley patriarch let the sentence hang, but all four individuals immediately seized the implied meaning.

If they hadn't helped, it would have been an excellent excuse to exterminate the last remnants of the old Magocentric order.

Not willing to dwell on that particular what-if, Hermione turned her attention to two other silent individuals in the room with the group. They hadn't bothered to resist Ron's snatching and destroying of their plates, but had not gone on angry rants, either.

"I'm a bit surprised that Severus and Draco were brought along, though," she commented. "I mean, why not Tonks? Why not Minerva?"

Moody scoffed irritably. "Hadn't you heard, Granger?" he used her maiden name to avoid confusion between her and her father-in-law. "Minerva completely submitted to the Imperial Government, underwent a battery of tests, and finally got her license to teach at one of Harrisburg's less renowned academies. Tonks had her soundness vouched by Lupin. As far as the Empire's concerned, they're both as sound Imperial citizens as one can be."

"And Flitwick?" asked Arthur, genuinely curious and willing to pick Moody's brain since the man seemed to know the fate of some of their comrades.

Moody shrugged. "Same as Minerva, last I heard—same school, too. Shacklebolt's the real surprise, though," he admitted. "After Harrisburg, he willingly underwent every test the Ministry of War was willing to enforce on him in order to get a pioneering license. Last I heard, he's helping the reconstruction efforts in…Sydney, I think it was."

Frank goggled. "Kingsley? An Imperial pioneer?" he asked incredulously. "Who'd have thought?"

Moody nodded. "I know. I was surprised too. Word has it that if he's on his best behaviour in Australia, he'll have a license to lead a charter group to establish a new town somewhere in England, once all this dodgy business is over with."

Hermione smiled. "I guess he was tired of the fighting and wanted to go home," she reasoned, feeling sympathetic for her former comrade. From the looks on the others' faces, she could tell they all felt the same way.

Moody nudged his head in the direction of the ranting redhead that was Hermione's husband. "Do you seriously think _they_'d see it that way?" he asked archly.

Sadly, Hermione shook her head. She loved her husband, but she could also admit that he wasn't the easiest person to get along with, and his temper issues had merely worsened over the years as the end of the Magical World became ever more apparent as the Empire marched on triumphantly.

Just then, even as she was about to speak, a soft, dual-toned ring sounded throughout the room three times, which she assumed was a predetermined signal to notify its audience of impending communications. Thus, she wisely shut her mouth and kept her ears open, eager to see if the communiqué held any information as to why she and her fellow ex-Order members were all in this mess hall.

Sure enough, the speakers, strategically placed on every wall of the room to maximize the attention given by the audience, soon enough sprung to life as the ring ended after going off for the third time.

"_Attention, attention,_" spoke a soft-sounding voice that seemed familiar to Hermione. Where had she heard it before? "_Please be aware of an impending message from Her Majesty the Queen, Elizabeth the Third, to be transmitted via monitor. Attention, attention…_" the message then began to repeat itself.

Instantly, all nine ex-Order members turned as a big, black screen at the front of the room suddenly flickered on to life, showing a bare stage holding only an exquisitely sculpted golden podium at the centre, its very design made to replicate an eagle in mid-flight. Hermione suspected that the wingspan was used to set any documents down. Only barely could they see the shadows of a throng of people at the base of the stage, making her wonder where exactly this event was taking place. Did the ship they were in even have such a room?

As the auditory transmissions began to filter in, the group began to hear what seemed to be an unfamiliar, English-chanted song, full of imperious and patriotic fervour. At the end of nearly every stanza, they could all distinctly hear the male chorus singing, "All hail Britannia!"

Hermione leaned forward towards Frank so that her mouth was close to his ear. "Another patriotic song?" she whispered.

Frank nodded slightly. "Sounds like it."

Hermione nodded back and withdrew, feeling a bit shaken at this new song. Every day she had spent in Harrisburg after the failed Death Eater attack, she had noticed the gradual descent (or ascent, depending on one's point of view, she supposed) of the populace into fanaticism. While freedom of expression was legally protected and enforced by the Imperial Provosts, it was now pretty much common sense that dissent would effectively end your social life, as well as ruin you economically.

Furthermore, the rising icons of mass worship in the Empire were consistently the Duke of Halifax and the Queen herself. The Queen, Hermione had noticed, had been elevated to near-godlike status, and through subtle questioning, she came to learn that many saw the Queen as the protective mother of her people. On a similar vein, they saw the Duke of Halifax, Harry James Potter, as the mighty knight of the Queen—her wingless angel of Death and Retribution.

Frankly, Hermione feared for the future of the human race if such fanaticism was allowed to prosper. She could understand where they were coming from, naturally. The people who adored the Crown were those who had lost everything to the Death Eaters, and the return of the Crown had been like a godsend, in more than one way. Indeed, it seemed to many like divine intervention on their behalf, and they were just as content to allow it to rule over them, as long as it meant that the Death Eaters and their kind could no longer hurt them.

The crowd on the screen began to stir, and Hermione's eyes focused on the image once again just as the red-and-black robed Elizabeth III walked onto the stage, to the deafening cheers of the crowd. Without noticing it herself, Hermione had inched forward on her seat, almost eager to hear what the young (younger even than her!) monarch had to say.

She watched as the Queen, somewhat flustered by the intense cheering, nonetheless smiled softly at her subjects and lifted a hand in a calming gesture. Between the expression on the Queen's face and her vestments, it wasn't difficult to imagine for Hermione why the crowd almost immediately silenced themselves. Where there had only been a frail young teen now stood a veritable pillar of authority. The months between Harrisburg and the present must have been of great help to the young Queen, seeing how well she was acting her part as supreme ruler of more than 1/3 of the planet's surface.

"My…" she began and, for a split-second, seemed to stop as she considered her next word. "…people," she settled, surprising Hermione even as the crowd burst into cheers. She had assumed that the speech writers would have made her refer her audience as her "children," given the popular image of the Queen at this point. Nonetheless, Hermione thought this was the wisest course, given the teen's young age. Much less conflicting.

"My people," the Queen repeated, waving down the cheers. "I humbly thank you for your patience with me as you are asked to stand there and listen to these poor words of mine," she spoke with grace. "As you all know, the Imperial Army, under the able direction of General of the Imperial Armies John Sulu, has been constantly laying siege to the enemy citadel of Hogwarts. Recently, we received confirmation that the main gate itself was taken."

The mess hall Hermione was in exploded in sound as Ron, his mother, and his brother Percy all got to their feet and shouted denials. They had all gone to Hogwarts as schoolchildren, and it was hard for them to believe that their _alma mater_ was now under siege by the very forces they dearly wished would cease to exist.

Despite the noise they did, however, the others in the room were intent on watching the transmission, so Snape subtly raised the volume a deal higher, completely drowning out the vocal protests of the minority.

"…the fine leadership of our officers," the Queen had kept going, and Hermione couldn't help but feel irritated at having missed some of the speech. "However, on the heels of this wonderful news, word was shortly thereafter received that the main gate was then buried under a sudden avalanche, though none of our people were apparently harmed, thanks be to the Creator."

A mumble could be heard going through the audience—probably repetitions of the Queen's thanks. Nonetheless, she pressed on.

"Our brave soldiers are now cut off and alone in the face of the enemy's forces, my dear people," she told them sombrely. "And yet, we will not abandon them. Not while a single scrap of metal remains in the sky. Not while a single breath lies within our lungs. Not even if all but an arm, a leg, and our heads is all that remains of our bodies will we _ever_ abandon our brave brothers and sisters! Before we do such a thing, I swear to you, I will have Hogwarts _razed_ to the very ground!"

Cheers swept through the crowd once again, and Hermione could hear some of them chanting out "Long live the Queen!" already. Even so, the speech was not over, and Hermione kept her attention solely focused on the Queen, on whose head the camera had slowly centred on, until it occupied most of the screen.

"My dear people, I give you the great news that our best and brightest have finally managed to bring down the damnable wards that kept our ships from aiding our soldiers on the ground. Soon, the entire might of the British Empire will descend on our final enemy and grind him into dust! Soon, the war will be over, and we shall finally, after more than a decade of war, have peace!"

Her fist in the air, Elizabeth shouted out, "Long live our glorious Empire!"

"Long live the Empire! Long live the Queen!" chanted back the audience, over and over again.

Back in the mess hall, all was quiet in the room, even amongst the loudest of the group of imprisoned magicians.

"Turn it off," growled Moody as the chanting kept going for a full minute. He wasn't mad—far from it—but he _was _concerned, and anyone who knew him well could have determined that from the tone of his growl. Within seconds, Hermione had gotten up and turned off the screen manually before returning to her seat by Frank, Moody, and Arthur.

Just as quickly, the hushed discussions began. Draco and Snape had their heads together and were quickly exchanging whispers, both of them more calculating than fearful. Predictably, Ron, Percy, and their mother were all three up in arms over the announced intention to destroy Hogwarts if it became absolutely necessary. As far as Hermione and her three colleagues were concerned, on the other hand, the question was their own usefulness, given the fact that the war seemed on the brink of ending. Why were they still here? What possible use did the Empire have for them, since they seemed to be doing so well on their own?

It was Moody who broke the foursome's silence first. "We're all thinking it, I'm saying it—why are we still here?" he growled. "The Empire seems to be doing mighty fine on its own, so why bring us along for the ride?"

His three colleagues nodded. "It seems to me they wish to intimidate us," opined Arthur before he elaborated further. "Everyone else that we knew from the Order has already submitted publicly to the Empire. Minerva and Filius are both teachers; Kingsley is a pilgrim, and the rest have scattered. We're the only ones who've not said anything one way or the other."

Frank scowled. "I was enjoying life as a retiree," he pointed out.

Arthur shrugged. "I suppose they found that a flimsy excuse. When Minerva, Filius, and Kingsley retire, I have no doubts they'll have no problems doing so, but we haven't done anything productive, so to speak," he riposted, before glancing to his remaining family members. "And we're all connected to people who have been vocally dissenting towards the Empire."

Hermione bowed her head. "Sometimes, I really wish I hadn't told them that the Empire's constitution allowed for freedom of speech," she admitted. "It was the right thing to do, though."

Arthur nodded, while Moody and Frank stayed silent.

"Still, I can't help but wonder why Dumbledore wasn't picked up like the rest of us," Frank brought up the matter for the umpteenth time. To the foursome, it was the perennial question—why wasn't Dumbledore with them? Why hadn't the Imperial forces imprisoned him, given the fact that he was the rallying icon of the Magocentric order?

Just like the other countless times the question had been brought up, though, the group had no answers for it. They had deliberated on it for hours, and had come up with every possible explanation they could think of—including the idea that Dumbledore was holed up in Hogwarts and they were brought along to watch the aged ex-Headmaster be defeated once and for all. The odds of _that_ particular explanation were so incredibly ludicrous to them that they immediately dismissed it out of hand.

The group's musings were suddenly brought to a halt, however, as the door that led out of the mess hall suddenly hissed loudly and slid open—something they had not seen happen since they were first incarcerated in the room.

Immediately, ten Imperial Army soldiers filtered in the room, their khaki uniforms clean and ironed, telling the group that they were not veterans from the current engagement down on the ground. Still, that didn't detract from the sense of overwhelming authority that they emitted. The rifles in their hands helped in that sense, too.

The ten soldiers quickly formed a half circle around the doorway, their eyes trained on the ten mages inside and their trigger fingers twitching every so often as they caught movement from the group of incarcerated magic users. Finally, one of them, probably the leader of the group, took one step forward and opened his mouth to speak.

"On your feet!" he barked out, and the forcefulness of the shouted order made the group jump. "My name is Sergeant Avery, and if you magic-using stick users don't want to see the inside of our lovely five-by-five accommodations one level down, you'll be listening to my every instruction as though it were the Word of God. Understand? Good."

Sergeant Avery hadn't even let the group say anything during that entire speech. Hell, he'd even acknowledged their assent to his instructions before they had even processed what he'd said. Nonetheless, the sheer sense of authority Avery emitted pretty much compelled the group to follow his instructions, so they slowly got to their feet.

Avery nodded. "I see you're all able to use your brainpans—that's a start," he said acerbically. "Now then, I am to take you jolly, stick-waving butts to the ship's bridge," the way Avery said this told the group how unhappy he was with _that _particular idea. "So get your asses in line and get ready to move out!"

Outraged at the man's coarse language as the women were, no one made any protest, however; the look on the sergeant's face had all the implications of a promise for future pain if they disregarded his orders, and none of them were particularly looking to go toe-to-toe with an Imperial soldier, much less ten. Reluctantly, the group got to their feet and, very slowly, got into a makeshift line—Hermione abandoning her group to stand by her husband, although they guessed it was also to ensure he didn't do anything that could jeopardize his personal safety. Disappointed with Ron though she was, Hermione still loved him dearly and saw the best in him when no one else would, and that earned her the respect of her otherwise more reticent colleagues.

Silently, the group was escorted out of the mess hall and down a myriad of corridors, all of them metallic grey and unwelcoming to the magicians. Every new door that slid open, every new piece of enclosed steel and bolts was a stark reminder that they were remnants of a dead age, and that these people, the Empire and its allies, were the present. They were outdated, unwanted, and cast out. They were here, they realized, in order to understand the consequences of refusing to adapt, to integrate. They had been given lots of time to make up their minds and come into the fold of their own free will, but they, the last ex-Order members who were, to a degree, still loyal to Dumbledore, had spurned the time granted to them.

Frank glanced at Snape, who was silently walking alongside him. Well, perhaps not all of them had spurned the time granted to them. He knew for a fact, via the other, dispersed Order members, that Snape had been given a position as a researcher in Weasley & Weasley, which had surprised the Longbottom patriarch. He had always assumed that the acerbic Potions professor had detested the legendary twin terrors of Hogwarts. Yet, without a doubt, Snape had taken the job and, from what little Frank heard, he had been somewhat instrumental in developing new potions within the company's commercial purview.

So why was he here? For that matter, what about Draco? The blonde haired ex-aristocrat was, last he'd heard, a cadet in the Imperial Provost Academy. It was a surprise, but Draco did indeed seem to want to become one of the very men who'd, barely two days ago, arrested him at his home. Or, at least, that's what he _thought_ happened. He honestly had no proof one way or the other.

They were up to their twentieth (he counted) corridor now. They had, per his count, gone up at least four levels, through twenty section doors, and past maybe three dozen ship crew. None of them had spared the group of escorted magicians a sympathetic glance.

It was past their twenty-fourth section door that they finally had something happen that broke the monotony of their silent march. Just as they were midway through the corridor, a very fancy and ornate wooden door to the side of the hall suddenly opened, and two figures could be heard talking heatedly as they walked out.

"…I'm telling you: the reason the damn stabilizers aren't working is because the weight-to-suspension ratio was miscalculated!" said a familiar male voice.

"And I'm saying that it's the stabilizers that are faulty!" shot back a female voice as the two figures finally broke through the door's threshold and walked out into the group's view. "I went over the design blueprints five times already, and I'm telling you, the—oh!"

The woman's male counterpart came to a jerking stop as his colleague suddenly halted herself, having caught sight of the group of magicians being escorted under armed guard. When the man finally turned around to face the group, curious as to what had stopped his colleague, everyone's eyes widened in recognition, though the man's own response was to raise a curious eyebrow.

Molly Weasley was the first to speak, which Frank found unsurprising. "_Bill?_"

Bill gave the group a casual wave, even as Sergeant Avery turned to glare at his charges. "Hello everyone," he greeted rather monotonously. "Fancy seeing you all here," he added before turning his full attention to Avery. "Sergeant," he greeted respectfully.

The sergeant returned the courtesy by giving a crisp salute. "Doctor Weasley, sir."

Bill gave the group a calculating glance before returning his eyes to the black Sergeant's face. "I'm guessing Admiral Wolf called for them?" he asked politely.

Sergeant Avery nodded. "Yes, sir. All of them. Didn't ask why."

Bill nodded, taking a step back and cupping his chin pensively while Fleur stood at his side, her body language returning to that of a meek lab assistant. In public, after all, that was all she was, even if Bill took her seriously when in private. They had an image to keep up with, after all.

"Well, I'm due to make my rounds up there anyway, so why don't I take them off your hands, Sergeant?" he offered after a moment of consideration. "I'm sure you and your men have more pressing issues at hand, no? Like, say, getting ready for the drop?"

The way Bill had phrased that last part was interestingly vague, in the opinions of the calmer of the group; as though Bill was privy to something secret that he knew the Sergeant and his men were also in on. Thus, expectedly, the Sergeant nodded gratefully, though he remained doubtful.

"I don't know, sir…" Avery said somewhat reluctantly. "I mean, I have my orders, and these _are_ orders from the Admiral…"

Bill waved away the older man's concerns. "Sergeant, as I'm sure you're well aware, my own post is not within the military hierarchy, but it does carry with it a decent amount of influence. If you'd like, I could bring in Her Majesty in on this…" Avery's eyes bugged out at that thought, "…but I'm sure she's got other, more pressing worries than escorting detail to consider."

With just that, Avery was practically falling over himself as he tried to agree quickly enough to reassure Bill that he was okay with handing over authority over the prisoners and that there was no reason to involve the Imperial monarch in this matter. Then, with a movement of his left hand, the soldiers quickly shouldered their weapons and marched the opposite way from the group, only too eager to leave the area.

The soldiers now gone, Bill gave an emotionless smile at the group. "Now then, please follow me," he said pleasantly before turning his head towards Fleur and adding, "And Fleur, up front with me. Don't think I've forgotten what we were talking about."

Despite her attempts at keeping her image of dutiful research assistant intact, Fleur couldn't help the indignant glare that she shot Bill that moment. She knew she was right, and her boss/crush was just being bull-headed about it. Not that he didn't have his reasons, though—he had practically invented the part she was so stubbornly insisting was faulty.

"You know I'm right," she hissed as she fell into step beside him, glaring at him from the corner of her eyes.

Bill glanced down at her with a stubborn look. "I know no such thing," he disagreed. "I'm telling you, the calibrations were all off. If we increased the weight allowances for the suspenders, then the LMLV wouldn't have stabilizer issues!"

Fleur closed her eyes in frustration as Bill consistently kept shooting down her theory. The vehicle in question was a fast, land-based four-man capacity jeep that was typically retrofitted with a two-manned quad-cannon machine gun. It was basically an agile, deadly anti-infantry weapon, but it had one flaw: make a turn at anything more than seventy miles per hour, and the whole thing flipped like a coin mid-air. The last two tests had basically ended up with the crash dummies signalling 100% passenger death.

"Bi—Mister Weasley," she amended, remembering that they were trailing a group of magicians that had been, until seconds ago, under armed guard, "the suspension system is perfect. I went over the diagrams myself. They should be fully able to support the weight shift—it's the stabilizers, sir. There's no other explanation. Even the engineers agree with me!"

Bill was silent now, though she could still see the stubbornness on his face. Bill was a proud man, but he was not arrogant, and that was why she knew she'd won when he looked away from her. It was typically a sign of his giving up.

"Fine," he ground out, his tone defeated. "Have the engineers look at the stabilizers themselves. If there's a flaw with the device, have them fix the parts ASAP. We need those vehicles on the ground along with the rest of the dropped supplies."

On an impulse, Bill glanced behind him as he gave his instructions to Fleur. He supposed he'd instinctively known, but at least three people in the group behind him and his assistant were trying to be subtle about their interest in his conversation with Fleur. The three were, to his amusement, Hermione, Draco, and Severus Snape. He already knew about the circumstances of all his charges, but he knew he had little to worry about from the latter two mostly. Hermione's soundness was more theoretical to him. She _might_ not be a threat—but that wasn't reason enough for him to drop his guard and lift the supervision spell he'd silently had Fleur cast while their attention had been on him and Sergeant Avery.

Just for fun, he decided to amuse himself by interacting with the group of non-compliant magicians behind him.

"Did you know, Fleur, that the Empire keeps track of all members, both former and current, of any dissident organizations dating even before the coup?" he asked rhetorically and loudly enough that everyone in the ten-man group behind him could hear him without any trouble. Instantly, they had all perked up.

Fleur, for her part, was not privy to his intentions, so she looked at her boss confusedly and shook her head. "No, sir, I did not," she confessed. "Why is that important?"

Bill visibly grinned at his beautiful assistant. "Oh, it's just that it's such an unknown fact. It's true, though. The Imperial Provosts have, alongside Imperial Special Operations, kept tabs of anyone and everyone with any connections to groups that had been virulently anti-government before the coup. You should see the storage facilities for their paper files—it's quite impressive," he said admiringly. "You should also see the kind of information that they keep there. Home addresses, minutes from conversations, personal likes and dislikes…the whole nine yards, to be concise," he informed his assistant as he started to count down mentally from 3.

2.

1.

"E-Everything?"

Bill grinned internally. Hermione had taken the bait just as he'd expected her to. Bill cast an amused glance back at her as he confirmed, "Everything."

Unconsciously, he began to move his arms as he elaborated on his statement. "Both the Provosts and the Special Operations Headquarters have been mandated to ensure internal soundness, so it's natural that they would take a huge interest in persons who might have, at one point or another, taken part in anti-government groups. It so happens that the Order of the Phoenix is listed as such an organization."

"Names, home addresses, meeting places, minutes of conversations between members and between members and non-affiliated peoples, likes and dislikes, body measurements and characteristics, criminal and health records, employment history—everything is dutifully recorded by teams of agents assigned to keeping tabs on selected individuals," he told the group, despite the look of consternation on Fleur's face. "It is truly a wonder of the bureaucratic state!"

He heard Ron—or so he assumed anyway—snort and Bill had to grin at the opening that provided. "Don't believe me?" he asked rhetorically. "I'll have you know that, given my position in the Imperial hierarchy, I've been granted access to these files, even though there's one on me, too."

"There's one on you?" asked Fleur incredulously.

Bill nodded. "I was a member, however shortly, of the Order of Phoenix back before dear old Harry gave me the opportunity of a lifetime," he informed his colleague. "But that's not important. You all want proof that I'm not making this up?" he asked the group behind him, though he never stopped his strides as he led them further around the ship.

Picking at random, he settled on Moody, who he knew would have been the most paranoid of the stalked subjects. "Alastor Moody, also known as Mad-Eye due to his infamous magical eye prosthetic," he recited from memory. "Born on June 6th, 1944, otherwise known as D-Day. About five-foot five in height, weight average for adult of his height. Attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry from 1954 to 1961, earning seven OWLS and six NEWTS, then joined the Auror Corps upon graduation. Had a long and distinguished career in said Corps until his retirement following the end of Riddle's reign of terror in 1981."

Bill took a deep breath before he continued, though he was fully aware that everyone behind him was staring at him in shock—none more so than Moody himself. "Following his retirement, he reactivated himself onto active duty as an Auror instructor from 1994 until the coup, presumably as a result of the resurgence of Death Eater activity," he continued to recite off the top of his memory. "Up to the events of 1997, he served as an advisor to Albus Dumbledore, then-Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as well as then-Head of the Order of the Phoenix. After 1997, he went on to serve for the Magical Resistance based in Hogwarts, which lasted until 1998 when the castle was finally conquered by the Death Eaters and the Resistance was forced to flee the Isles—first to France, then to Spain, then finally to Gibraltar and from there, to Panama in 2000."

Bill glanced back. "I can keep going, if you want; go into personal details and the like?" he suggested before raising a challenging eyebrow. "Or have I proven that we've kept close tabs on all of you?"

By now, the group behind him had come to a complete halt, leaving Bill and Fleur a good two meters in front of them. They were all staring at the redhead in varying degrees of shock, ranging from subtle (Draco and Snape) to outright (Percy and Ron). None of them had expected this level of external intrusion into their lives, but there it was, laid out for all to see and hear, and worst of all—about the most paranoid member of their group.

Hermione, in particular, was torn between horror and shock. Or rather, she was a perfect combination of both. She was an avid bookworm and she knew it—she lived for the accumulation of knowledge, but this was something else entirely. This was a clear-cut invasion of privacy, and it stung at her more harshly than anything else she'd gone through—this was a corruption of everything she loved.

"How could you?" she asked, horrified.

Bill raised three fingers. "There are three categories that the Imperial Intelligence Service uses to categorize the mental states of those there are placing under observation: weak, average, strong," he told them in what seemed to be a non-sequitur. "The weak minded are those that need the least amount of proof to change their outlooks, the average minded are those who need to see some proof, and the strong minded require careful, constant, and lengthy procedures to make them change their minds—but it is, in the end, possible to change anyone's minds."

Hermione blinked, confused by this total deviation from the topic she'd been demanding answers on. "What's that got to do with anything?" she asked.

Bill smiled. "After about a month of deliberation, the majority of the Order of the Phoenix was declared by the IIS to be composed of weak to average minded individuals. As a direct result, efforts were launched to have these individuals…shall we say…convinced of the necessity for them to abandon any and all affiliation with the Order and its constituent members."

"Divide and conquer," Moody summed up gruffly, still a bit shaken that so much of his life had been uncovered by the Empire.

Bill nodded. "Indeed. If we could remove the weak and average minded members of the Order from Dumbledore's grasp, we could virtually strip the Order's remnant power bare. Even dissolved, we were under no illusions that Dumbledore would not keep contact with his former members, and we were right. Each one of you has had constant contact with him since the organization's dissolution," he reminded them before suddenly pausing and then reassessing his words. "Well, all of you besides Draco and Severus," he retracted.

"Regardless," Bill went on, even as the group moved to stare at Draco and Snape, who were busy keeping their eyes on Bill and listening to his every word with narrowed eyes. "The IIS succeeded in stripping away those it set out to strip away from the Order. McGonagall, Flitwick, and Shacklebolt were by far the hardest of them, however, but they too eventually caved in. The others were far easier."

Hermione quickly put two and two together and somehow felt a little flattered by her conclusion. "So everyone presently here are those considered to be the strong minded members of the Order?" she asked, hoping for confirmation, which quickly came.

"Indeed," agreed Bill. "Every one of you was categorized as strong minded, which is why the IIS had you all brought here after I suggested it to Harry, who suggested it to Ginny, who suggested it to the IIS," he elaborated. "We are here, dear family and former colleagues, to destroy the last vestiges of your trust in the old order."

"Like hell we are!" growled out Ron, who balled his hands into fists and took an aggressive step forward, despite the fact that the man he was threatening was his own brother. "We're not that easy!"

Bill raised an eyebrow at Ron's bravado but made no other outward signs of effect. "Are you sure that's quite wise, Ron?" he asked neutrally. "You've seen Imperial agents and soldiers fight before. Do you really think that I, being so high in the Imperial hierarchy, would not have received similar training?"

Fleur, however, seemed to want none of the idea of Bill fighting and quickly interposed herself between her boss and his youngest brother. "Please leave this to me, Mister Weasley," she requested. "You have work to do, and this is far beneath your level."

Fleur's words, though entirely true, nonetheless served to merely infuriate the youngest of the Weasley brothers. What really got to him, however, was the dismissive look in his oldest brother's eyes. As though he was regarding a pest.

"Very well," granted Bill. "If anything happens, you have ten seconds to finish it. The rest of you," he addressed the group. "I would suggest that you follow me. We still have to get you all to the ship's bridge. They will want you all up there in time to watch the Airfleet offensive from the very beginning."

Hermione, now completely certain that her husband would end up hospitalized by the ice-cold look on Fleur's face as she glared like a harpy at Ron, decided to end the confrontation before it could escalate to that level by grabbing her husband's right arm in a tight hold. "Don't!" she hissed in his ear.

Ron's head snapped back to look at her. "'Mione! You don't think I can take her?!" he asked in outrage at this seeming betrayal.

Hermione glared at her husband. "Don't be an idiot, Ron!" she hissed back. "Look at her!" He did; she was still glaring a hole into his head. "Can't you feel it from her very posture and that oppressive feeling she's been lashing out since you challenged Bill? She's _way_ above our level!"

Ron glared at his wife, but she would have none of it. "Don't look at me like that!" she snapped. "Consider if you _did_ fight her, what do you _think_ will happen _if_ you win?" she asked angrily. "That you'll get away scot-free? No! If not Bill, then the thousands of soldiers on board this ship will hunt you down and either arrest you or worse!" she reminded him.

"Listen to her, boy," added in Frank as he put a restraining hand on the redhead's left shoulder. The battle-scarred ex-Auror was glaring down at him as well. "I've been in more fights than you have years twice over, and I can tell she'd wipe the floor with everyone here bar maybe Moody, Snape, and myself."

Bill, on the other hand, looked bored by the proceedings, even though he kept a constant eye on his battle-ready assistant, who had a delicate arm in front of her that, to his eyes, was practically _glowing_ and pulsating with waves of blue and silver energy. It wasn't lethal energy, but it would cause his little brother a _world_ of hurt.

He found it interesting that so many in the group had accurately guessed Fleur's strength, despite her completely non-threatening looks, however. Perhaps he had misjudged them. Personally, he'd thought of them as being all average-minded people, but now he wasn't as sure. Perhaps it really _was_ a good idea to bring them along for this trip, despite the fact that he'd made the suggestion in jest.

Eventually, Ron backed down, he noticed, and Bill gave them a bored smile. "Good. Since we're all going to be civil about this, I suppose we should get going, then," he said pleasantly while Fleur slid back into a normal posture at her boss' side. "After all, we can't exactly keep the guests of honour from the event of the year."

* * *

_Post-AN: As always, please review. Not obligatory, or a requisite for more chapters, but always nice._


	44. Chapter XXXVII: The Drop

_AN: Next chapter! And yes, inspiration for this chapter does come from the epic Orbital Drop Shock Troopers of Halo fame (aka ODST's). Also, from the Space Marines of Warhammer 40,000 fame. And the actual air drops in Normandy and Holland._

_...point being, there's a lot of sources I drew on for this chapter. Hope you like it :D_

_Oh, and to those that have reviewed, thank you very much for the supportive comments.  
_

* * *

The mustering bay where all the remaining Imperial troops awaited on the _HMIS Invincible_ was abuzz with activity as the ship-wide communications systems had previously relayed the message which started the whole mess.

"_Attention, Attention,_" the female voice had said through the speakers. "_Airfleet Task Force Alpha through Delta have been granted leave to move forward towards the target. All personnel within these Task Forces are to prepare for future drop into combat._"

That announcement alone had caused the waiting troops in the mustering bay to snap out of their lethargic vigil and into action. Soon, where groups had previously been formed to play cards or chat away the time, soldiers—male and female—were running to and fro, quickly gathering gear and ammunition and gathering in their respective sections.

It was interesting that none of the men in question wore the khaki uniforms of the Imperial Army. Instead, they were loose, black uniforms, with all major body sections specifically tailored so that in the event that it becomes necessary for emergency bandaging, the required piece of cloth could easily come off with sufficient physical force.

At the very back of the massive mustering bay, surrounded by the fleeting forms of running soldiers, was 21-year old Victoria "Vicky" McVey, a new recruit into her present company, though by no means a new recruit overall. She had already participated in so many numerous engagements that the brown-eyed, raven-haired young woman had the typical detached look of a soldier who'd seen too much already.

Yet, sitting on the floor and watching everyone rush one way or another, she suddenly felt like she was back at training camp. She was totally unfamiliar with how things ran in this particular company, used as she was to the methods of her previous Captain. Said Captain had always been in the middle of everything her company did. If a mustering call was issued, she was right there in the middle, barking out orders and organizing the troops with lightning-fast reflexes. If the company deployed, her old Captain would always be first on the ground and last off. Frankly, she had grown to admire her Captain, and it had been nearly heartbreaking when she had been informed by said Captain of her transfer to this new company.

Not that it wasn't an honour—it really, _really_ was. In fact, she was certain that her Captain had seemed a tad envious at the fact that it was a subordinate and not her who had gotten the transfer approved. Nonetheless, she felt out of place in this new unit, and it showed with her lethargic reaction to the announcement.

Unlike her new comrades, she had not jumped to her feet and dashed towards the gun racks or the armour stands. She hadn't even moved from her comfortable seating position against a heavy metallic crate that she guessed was full of ammunition and/or explosives such as grenades. To be quite honest, she didn't care, either.

All she saw at the moment—all she could see—was chaos. So unlike her own former company, and yet these people were supposed to be better—much better—than her former colleagues. She couldn't see it, personally. After all, what kind of commander allows his troops this much freedom just before deployment? Especially when this deployment was the first of its kind?

Vicky gave a depressed sigh. She wanted back with her unit, which she had no doubts was being ordered into ordered parade-ground formation by the ever-sarcastic and order-loving Captain Juliana Mendez. At least with Mendez, you knew where you stood from the get-go. Not like this rabble.

She was quickly brought out of her reverie when a large shadow caught her attention. Looking up, she was graced with the annoyed expression of a woman carrying golden Sergeant stripes on her upper sleeves.

"What do you think you're doing, Corporal…" the woman glanced down at Vicky's tag, "McVey?"

Vicky was depressed, but not stupid. She wasn't about to mouth off to her superior officer, no matter how reticent she felt. Despite her feelings, she was still a soldier, and a damn good one to boot. She wasn't about to sacrifice her long career now just because of some feelings of attachment to her old company.

So instead of back-talking the sergeant, Vicky shot to her feet and went to attention, saluting. "Ma'am!" she barked out respectfully. "I apologize, ma'am! I'm afraid I've just transferred to this company and, well…" she paused for a moment in order to gather her thoughts. "…well, I've found myself a little thrown off by how chaotic things seem to be," she finished, hoping she had been as diplomatic as she'd sounded in her own mind.

The sergeant seemed to mull her answer for a moment before deciding to let things go, albeit reluctantly. "I see," she replied. "So you're the new girl," she observed unnecessarily. "I guess you've not been told your section assignment yet?"

Vicky shook her head once firmly. Total economy of movement—the sign of a trained and experience soldier.

The sergeant sighed, placing her hands on her hips and looking down exasperatedly. "God-_damnit_, Anderson!" she mumbled audibly before looking up and giving Vicky a sympathetic look. "Sergeant Anderson should have told you your assignment."

The sergeant brought a hand up to take off her red beret and with her other hand ran it across her shortened, bob-cut raven hair. In doing so, Vicky noticed the sergeant's patch once again, except this time she noticed something she had not previously—a crown above the three chevrons.

'_Oh __shite__!' _she thought. '_She's the bloody--!'_

"Staff Sergeant Miller," the sergeant introduced herself, giving Vicky a stiff salute. "The captain's second in command," she elaborated before sighing. "Though that should technically fall on the lieutenants' shoulders…but none of them want the job."

Vicky had a sneaking suspicion she knew why. Miller confirmed it seconds later.

"Unfortunately, the Captain's way of doing things is just too chaotic for their tastes, and frankly, it really tests most of our men's patience. Still, it works for him," she allowed. She put her beret back on and gave Vicky a forlorn smile. "Anyway, I imagine you want your assignment now, yeah?"

Vicky gave a respectful nod, followed by a short, "Yes, ma'am!"

Sergeant Miller waved the formality off. "At ease, soldier. No one in this Company stands on formality with me unless two things happen: we're on parade orders, or you've pissed either me or the officers off," she stated plainly, and Vicky couldn't help but compare such laxity to the strict, by-the-book regulations enforced in her previous Company.

Miller wasn't done, however, and she pointed to her right, where a group of black body armour-clad troopers were apparently waiting for instructions. "That's your section. The blonde-haired one is Sergeant Jones, your immediate superior. _His_ immediate superior is…well, none of your concern, really," she amended suddenly, as though realizing the pointlessness of forwarding that knowledge. "He'll tell you if he feels like it, though, I suppose."

Sergeant Miller then turned to point at a rather large stack of opened crates and armour stands. Vicky recognized it as one of the many such equipment dumps that the others in her new Company had been raiding while she watched. "You can get your gear there. Make sure you have all your protective gear and communications equipment. With the ward down, we're restricting all comm chatter to encrypted mechanical frequencies."

Vicky nodded in acknowledgment, and Miller continued with her introduction. "Considering what we're being dropped into, I suggest you hook yourself up with an SA80, plus whatever the hell else Jones wants you to haul around."

Vicky once again nodded, this time speaking up. "Thank you, ma'am," she said gratefully. In truth, she had felt a bit lost before, and thanks to Miller, at least she now had a direction and some instructions to follow.

Sergeant Miller gave her newest charge a once-over before nodding. "You're welcome, Corporal. Now, I suggest you get a move on, before Jones starts wondering where his latest transfer's gotten to."

With that, Miller gave Vicky a sharp salute—which Vicky quickly returned just as sharply—and turned on her heel and marched over to where another group of soldiers seemed to be lounging as they waited for further orders. Vicky noticed that said group seemed much…rougher than the rest. Or perhaps the word was grim? Either way, they practically radiated an aura of experience. Sergeant Miller, Vicky further noticed, seemed to blend in just fine with the group, herself apparently adopting that same aura as she stood amongst them.

Vicky's assessment of the company was quickly evolving. At first, she had written them off as chaotic and overrated, but she was now understanding that behind the curtain of chaos and disorganization were able and experienced soldiers. She wondered how her own new section would be; would they be like the company as a whole—unpredictably laid back and disorganized? Would they be stricter?

Silently pondering these things, Vicky made her way towards the equipment dump that Sergeant Miller had pointed out to her. The gear itself was quite new, she noticed absently; but then, so was this whole concept of warfare. In fact, so recent was this development in warfare that General Headquarters had determined that only a single Company—her company—be used to test it out, just in case things went horribly wrong. Not that this comforted her—quite the opposite, in fact. Did they really expect her to be alright with using her life, and that of other soldiers, as guinea pigs? For the Empire or not, she wasn't all that eager to go meet her Maker just yet.

Focusing on her task, she calmly checked that all her needed equipment was present. Fully enclosing titanium-wrought battle helmet: check. Lightweight ceramic body armour: check. Lightweight ceramic shin and wrist guards: check.

As she ticked off the readiness of her equipment, Vicky wasted no time in clasping on the body armour, preferring not to don the helmet until it was time for the drop. She had to admit, she'd never imagined that the armour would feel so light. In fact, it made her somewhat suspicious as to its actual toughness, but a vicious jab at her own breastplate told her that the material was quite sturdy. Shrugging off her disbelief, Vicky then went for a pair of form-fitting black gloves that would finish the ensemble. On their back were stitched the same motif that she now wore on her upper arms: a grey sword pointed downwards with twin golden wings at its side. The difference was that the motif on her arms also had a motto written in golden fabric to go with the design: _Rain Death From The Skies_.

"Oi, rookie!" someone shouted, causing Vicky to turn abruptly to face her caller. As she expected, it was one of her squad; more importantly, it wasn't Sergeant Jones, so that meant she _probably_ wasn't in much trouble for not being ready yet. Unfortunately, however, she hadn't yet hit the weapons cache, so she was currently unarmed, and she had no idea how her section-mates would react to that.

Hell, she was already the FNG, so to speak, so she was sure she'd get some flak and sass from her teammates, but being _unarmed_ before a major operation? That was just inviting mockery in the armed forces.

Still, there was nothing for it; she was mostly responsible, given that she had spent much of her time moping about rather than trying to actively figure out who she was supposed to report to and what gear to take. Grabbing her helmet and holding it dangling from her right hand, she trudged her way to her section, her expression serious and grim.

The man who called her, a taller, bald man with a nasty looking scar on his left cheek, grinned at her as she came close.

"Oho!" he crowed. "Look at this, lads! We've got ourselves a real warrior in our midst!" he said before booming with laughter.

The other ten members of her unit responded with varying degrees of amusement as well—from polite chuckles hidden behind a fist to outright, booming laughter. Vicky was completely caught off-guard, yet again. These soldiers, allegedly some of the best the Empire has to offer, were being very laid back, considering the gravity of the ground situation and their own impending mission.

The big, bald man that had initiated the whole episode quickly—more quickly than she'd every believed him capable of—went to her side and slapped her back in a friendly fashion. "Come on, now, rookie! Lighten up!" he said encouragingly. "We don't bite!" he added jokingly, before seemingly giving that statement more thought. "Well, Adams would, maybe."

"Hey!" exclaimed the offended party, though the redheaded man had an insolent grin on his face as he protested. "No need to spread that around!"

The bigger man ignored his comrade and kept his attention on Vicky. "Name's Fred O'Reilly, but everyone calls me Tank. We're on the same fireteam."

Vicky, somewhat flustered, accepted the greeting with a simple nod. "Nice to meet you. Victoria, called Vicky, if you know what's good for you. No call-sign yet," she then introduced herself, giving Fred a playful glare. All it did was send the rest of the section into guffaws.

"Careful, lads! This one's got a temper!" Fred called out, and the laughter intensified. Despite the booming laughter, however, a woman with silver-blond hair that reached down to her nape—way beyond regulation lengths—approached her with an extended hand.

"Ignore the brutes, Vicky," the woman said with what sounded like a French accent. "My name is Michelle, call-sign Snap. Also on the same fireteam," she introduced herself.

"French?" blurted out Vicky incredulously. She hadn't ever imagined that the French had a presence in the Imperial forces, but her outburst deeply embarrassed her, so she gave Michelle an apologetic look, which the blonde laughed away.

"Close," she admitted with a grin. "Quebec, actually. My _maman_ is French-born, but _papa _was from Quebec," she explained, before motioning to a grim-faced, dark-haired man. "Viktor here, on the other hand, _is_ from Europe. Bulgaria, in fact."

"Viktor Krum, also on the fireteam," the man introduced himself. "As my lovely comrade has mentioned, I am not from your distinguished Empire. My family moved to Harrisburg in order to flee from the civil wars in Eastern Europe and I enlisted there. My call-sign is Vlad, by the way," he mentioned, before giving a sidelong glare to his comrades, who were all snickering.

"Inside joke," Michelle assured her, though the small smile she was desperately trying to hold back behind her small hand kind of ruined the seriousness with which she had spoken.

"And I'm Francis Jones," a man wearing sergeant's stripes on his upper arm sleeves. "Sergeant in command of this peanut gallery," he said gruffly, his very person seemingly out of a cliché war movie. Though without a beard, his blonde hair had grown into a noticeable stubble and he had a lit Cuban cigar between his teeth. His ice-blue eyes were piercing, but not unkind, and they spoke volumes of the experience he had that seemed to contradict with the appearance of his unit.

Vicky sharply saluted her immediate superior and gave a barked, "Sir!" as she came to attention. Jones quickly waved it off.

"Like the Staff, I'm not one for standing on ceremony. Call me Sarge, like the rest of these clowns," he told her while jutting his head in the general direction of his unit. He used his teeth to move his cigar around for a bit as he gazed at Vicky. "You got a specialty, Corporal?"

"Specialty, si—Sarge?" she quickly amended, remembering his suggestion.

Michelle decided to elaborate on the sergeant's behalf. "Weapon specialty, _chérie_. Every fireteam in this Legion has to be self-sufficient, you see, so we have our fireteams arranged to allow for easy independent manoeuvring." She gave Vicky a smile. "For instance, I'm best on a sniper, thus the call-sign Snap. Fred is amazing with heavy weapons, so Tank."

"And Vlad?" asked Vicky, curious. Said man blushed—whether in embarrassment or something else, though, she didn't know.

"Like I said, inside joke," said Michelle with a smile. "Viktor is best with conventional assault rifles and carbines."

Vicky nodded once before thinking on the matter a bit. She didn't want to blurt out a specialization only to then figure out on the battlefield that she hated it. Truth be told, she was good at assaulting positions, so in that respect she was on the same wavelength as Viktor. Her stature also didn't allow for much hauling around of the heavy weaponry that Fred seemed to favour, and she didn't have the patience for sniper work. Assault weapons it was, she supposed.

"Assault weapons," she stated simply. What the hell, right? You could do a lot with those. "I'm good with assault weapons. Rifles and submachine guns."

Jones nodded once before glancing at Viktor. "You got a problem with having another assault specialist on the fireteam, Krum?" he asked bluntly. "Not what you were looking for, was it?"

Viktor shrugged. "A demolitions specialist would have been good, but we can always go for the mobile assault build," he said thoughtfully before glancing at the third fireteam leader. "Would you have a problem becoming the demolitions intensive fireteam, Beckett?"

The chestnut haired woman in black body armour shook her head taciturnly, and Viktor responded with a thankful nod before returning his attention to Jones. "I guess that settles it, Sarge."

Jones nodded. "Good," he said before turning his gaze on Vicky once again. "That settles it, then. Your new call sign is Bolt," he decided then and there. "Krum's the lead Corporal in your fireteam; you listen to him, and if he's dead, you listen to Fred. If _he's_ dead, then odds are so are you, so go nuts at that point," he concluded gruffly.

"Just full of sunshine, he is…" Vicky heard Fred mumble under his breath, causing her to stifle a smile, just as Michelle was.

Obviously, however, Jones had heard, given the glare he sent Fred's way. "I ain't here to mollycoddle you bunch of crazy fools, Tank! Want to hear an inspirational speech? Go play back some of the Duke's!" he snapped at the much larger man. Despite the rebuke, however, he did give a feral grin. "I could be persuaded to lead us all in prayer, if that's more up your alley."

Vicky didn't know what to make of that, so she just went with the flow when most of them nodded, all of them with a small smile, as though privy to some private joke. Michelle, however, motioned towards her first.

"What is it, Snap?" asked Jones gruffly, taking out his cigar and shaking off some of the ash at the end.

"Bolt has no weapons yet, Sarge," the Quebecker reminded her superior. "Perhaps we should arm her _before_ the drop?"

Jones grunted in agreement before looking towards one of his own fireteam members. "Perkins! You always carry too much crap! Give Bolt your SA80 and one of those extra service pistols you always lug around!"

The man in question seemed uncomfortable with the request but readily obliged under his superior's piercing gaze. First he slung off the SA80 from his back and tossed it over to Vicky, who deftly caught it with one hand and then slung the strap over her shoulder. She then received the pistol from him—a Beretta 92, 5'9"-barrel variant. She goggled at the sidearm.

"Isn't this…?"

Perkins nodded. "Just like the ones the Duchess uses. Please take care of it," he requested, his eyes conveying just how much he treasured that sidearm. Vicky nodded in agreement and he nodded back in thanks.

Jones, for his part, just gazed at the two and then rolled his eyes. "Bunch of crazy crackers," he muttered. "You two done?"

Vicky and Perkins nodded as they straightened up—Vicky's new Beretta tucked snugly in her hip holster and her SA80 on her back…for now, anyway.

Jones nodded. "Good, now let's get this service going, shall we? _Before_ the drop?"

The entire section nodded again, and soon all of them followed their sergeant's example and bowed their heads reverently as the sergeant guided them in their "prayers."

"Oh, Lord," intoned Jones, his cigar still in his mouth. "As we descend upon our enemies like angels of death, we beg thee, oh Lord, to look after our sorry asses."

Vicky blinked. Did the sergeant just…?

"We beg thee, oh Lord, to guide with Thy hallowed Hand our drop pods onto some heathen scumbag, that we may enter battle with already a kill to our name," the sergeant continued, eyes closed, though his tone of voice had gotten more grandiose sounding.

Vicky tittered slightly, trying to contain her laughter at the makeshift prayer—apt though it was. Everyone else seemed to be smiling, too. The sergeant was perhaps the most serious looking of them, and she was sure he knew the effect he was having on his men and had done this just to elicit such a response.

"Oh, and Lord? Ignore the prayers of our enemies, misbegotten sons of whores that they are. They're heathens anyway…and probably soulless, to begin with," he added thoughtfully. "This we pray to thee, oh Lord, with the humility of our hearts, and the cans of whoop-ass in our hands."

The sergeant opened his eyes then and gave the section a sombre look. "And lastly, oh Lord," his voice had gotten quieter now, and everyone opened their eyes to truly stare at the ground. "should we fall in battle, our bodies hopefully surrounded by the heathen dead, we commend our families to Your mercy, and our souls to Your judgment."

It was perhaps the most, if not only serious part of the entire "prayer." No one was smiling now; everyone was grim-faced and truly praying at that point. There was no joking or laughing now. Everyone knew the risks, and while they wouldn't back out now, they were still very aware of just how much the odds were stacked against them.

"Amen," the sergeant said, and everyone followed suit.

"A-fuckin'-men," Vicky heard Fred mumble from beside her, his usually jovial expression dark and sombre.

Vicky was about to ask him something when the whole room was suddenly awash with red strobing red light, followed by the resurgence of the announcer woman's voice.

"_Attention, Attention_" said the woman, "_Drop zone imminent. First Legion, First Company to the ready room._" The message then began to repeat.

Already the members of her section were on the move, grabbing their helmets from the ground or from on crates or benches—Jones was currently shouting at them.

"Alright, ladies and gents! This is it! Move like you got a purpose, damnit!" he barked at his troops, who all began to trot towards the mentioned ready room, which was behind the pressure-locked, steel double doors at the very far end of the room.

Though she was ready to go, Vicky waited for the rest of her fireteam to get their gear first. Viktor was the first to join her, while Michelle went to help Fred haul the heavy weapons he was going to be carrying down into combat. This included a grenade launcher, an FN MAG general purpose machine gun, most impressively, an L2A1 heavy machine gun that he had strapped onto his back; and a slew of ammunition belts hanging off his shoulders. Vicky could see why he was called Tank—it was an apt name for the heavily armed man.

Still, it seemed like a bit much for them to carry between two people, so Vicky went to help, and without asking took the grenade launcher from Fred. "I'll help, too," she simply said, slinging on the grenade launcher onto her back. Fred merely grinned at her appreciatively and Michelle gave her a blinding smile.

Together, the four-man fireteam made their way to the ready room, which Vicky had assumed was a briefing room. How wrong she was. Rather, it was a single, long walkway that ran the middle of the room, and to its sides were two long columns of what looked like pods. Vicky felt her stomach drop as she realized that the sergeant hadn't been exaggerating or making things up in his prayer. They really _were_ going to drop into combat via pods. Had General HQ gone mad?! How could anyone survive such a thing?!

At the very end of the room, past the two columns of 125 pods each, Vicky could see Staff Sergeant Miller talking with a man wearing the three pips of Captaincy. She supposed this was the famed Captain Lyles who had led elements of the Royal Northern Army while it was under the command of the Duke, prior to the coup. She heard he, along with a Captain McAllen, had been present during the attempted rebellion in '97, and had been captured and imprisoned by the rebellious Ministry of Magic, only to then be released when the RNA returned from taking Serpent Fortress. He was a legend within the Armed Forces—a living symbol of the pre-war Empire.

He didn't look like much, she had to admit. He was average in many ways, she realized. There was very little about him that stood out, but what really got to her—what told her he was every bit the soldier described in the history books—was his eyes. Though he had a smile on his face as he discussed something with Staff Sergeant Miller, his eyes contained very little joy and a lot of experience. He was always looking one way or another, as though on a battlefield, and everything about his posture screamed ready to fight.

"That's Captain Lyles," Michelle whispered to her, confirming Vicky's guess. She motioned towards Miller with her head. "Word among the lads is that the Captain and the Staff are, y'know…" she gave Vicky a knowing glance. "…like _that_."

Fred snorted behind the blonde woman. "Like hell," he mumbled.

Michelle glared back at the bald man. "Why do you say that?" she rebuked him. "It's possible! It'd be cute!"

Fred visibly rolled his eyes. "It's also impossible," he told the two women bluntly, and Vicky could see Viktor nod ahead of them. "The Captain's about as straight ruler as you can get. He wouldn't toe the line if it danced in front of him naked and offered herself to him."

Vicky grimaced at the vivid—not to mention crude—imagery. "Thanks for that, Tank," she muttered.

Michelle and Fred both ignored her, however. The pretty blonde was currently arguing that the Captain was just as likely as anyone else in the company to act on his feelings, while Fred kept dismissing such arguments almost out of hand. Thus left without discussion partners, she turned her attention to Viktor and asked, "What do you think, sir?"

"Call me Vlad," Viktor responded instantly, giving her an amused look. "And about the Captain? I agree with Tank. Even if there's attraction there, nothing will ever happen," he opined. "The Captain's followed rules and orders to a point where he's practically known for it in the Legion. Even if Miller threw herself at him—and she won't; too proud—he wouldn't do a damn thing."

Vicky gave her superior an askance look. "So why's the whole Company so…" she searched for a word that wouldn't offend her superior, though she needn't have worried.

"Disorganized? A right mess?" supplied Viktor with a wry smile. "It's the way he is, I guess. He has no interest in management, so it shows with how chaotic the Company is. As a soldier, however, there's not many people who can rival his experience record."

"RNA for the entire duration of its existence, part of the BNLF from its conception to its incorporation into the Loyalist Alliance, then part of the British Imperial Armed Forces when the throne was restored. He's been in this war since the very beginning and survived, which is something many of his contemporaries can't say," Viktor told her.

Vicky watched as Lyles smiled and then seemingly chuckled at something that Miller was saying before shaking his head in amusement. The way the Captain and Staff were standing near each other, the somewhat intimate body language—it was all there, and yet Vicky could see what Viktor meant. Neither was making a move. Neither seemed willing to make a move or even expecting the other to, for that matter. They seemed…comfortable with whatever relationship they already had, even if it was a superior-subordinate one.

"Story of the Army, I'm afraid," said Viktor with a shrug as he led his fireteam towards their pods. "If you've got an itch in your nether regions, you ignore it until you're either on leave or discharged," he explained plainly before glancing back at Michelle and Fred, who were both still arguing. "Or you make damn sure you don't get caught."

Viktor seemed about to say something else when he suddenly stopped, seemingly surprised that he'd arrived at his destination already without having noticed. "Ah, here we go!" he exclaimed, noticing the pods with their call-signs tagged onto the hard, magically-enhanced titanium shells.

To Vicky, they looked like coffins, and the mere sight of one up close gave her the chills. All of them had their hatches opened, and the crash seat that was to be her way down to the ground was not particularly inviting, either. Still, it was _way_ too late to back out now, however, and so she just turned her back on the pod and stood at attention in front of it, as did the rest of her fireteam and then the rest of the Company.

"_Company!_" shouted Miller all of a sudden, "Atten_tion_!"

Instantly, the sound of 250 pairs of boots stomping the metallic floor resounded in the room. Every man and woman in the Company had gone stiff-backed, and behind all of them were their individual drop pods.

"At ease, soldiers," Lyles countermanded almost immediately, causing the 250 soldiers to take a step sideways and relax their posture, although everyone's hands were kept clasped behind their backs.

Vicky watched as Lyles took a place at the very end of the room, atop a small elevated platform that was undeniably made for the addressing of troops. As he made his way towards the middle, she saw him flash an instantaneous smile at Miller, who, besides blushing imperceptibly, made no reaction. Lyles, one of the oldest veterans of the Dark War, then turned to address his men, seemingly oblivious to his Staff Sergeant's reaction.

"Ladies, Gentlemen," he began, "We are on the cusp of the most innovative stage of warfare yet, and as befitting those whom the Duke trusts most, the task of seeing it through has fallen unto us—the First Legion First Company," he declared.

Vicky was taken completely by surprise when practically everyone—actually, she was sure everyone but her—stomped the floor once, loudly. Maybe it was a sign of Company pride?

"We have no predecessors from whose wisdom we can draw on," continued Lyles, making no mention of the stomping. "We are the first ones to take this rather drastic jump in warfare tactics—pun intended," he added with a grin, and the crowd tittered slightly. "And it is _because_ we are the first to do this that we shall do it _best_, am I right troopers?!"

Another foot stomp, and this time Vicky _almost_ managed to time it exactly right.

"The enemy, as we all know by now, is not human. It is not even organic. We are fighting the same, rotten, magically-fuelled machines that razed half the world in their wake before the Throne was restored," he reminded them. "But, as always, we must remember that they were beaten once, and we can beat them again. Hell, it's not even can—we _will_ kick their sorry, magical asses all the way to their Maker and back! _Am I right_, troopers?!"

This time, Vicky's foot stomp was perfectly timed, although some of the others kept a steady rhythm afterwards.

Lyles' right arm shot out, hand extended in a grasping fashion. "In life, _honour!_"

The whole room stomped once loudly.

"In peace, _vigilance!_"

Stomp.

"In war, _victory!_"

Stomp.

"In death, _glory!_"

Stomp.

Lyles drew his close-quarters combat sword and held it pointing upwards up in salute. "_Imperium Aevitas!_"

As one, the group drew their own combat swords in salute and chanted his cry over and over again. "_IMPERIUM AEVITAS! IMPERIUM AEVITAS! IMPERIUM AEVITAS!_"

It was only when the communal shout had died down that Lyles spoke again. "First Company!" he cried out. "To your pods!"

With a mighty cheer, the 250 members of the First Company pounded their fists in the air confidently and then proceeded to don their helmets, almost instantly causing the helmets' transparent OLED computer visor to flare to life. Vicky nearly stumbled at the amount of information the helmet's visor was providing, and it was only booting up!

As soon as the computer's calibrations were apparently finished, it flashed her a polite message on-screen for her to move into her pod, which she did on instinct, having also noticed that everyone else was stepping back into their own at the same time. As soon as she was inside and sat down, another message flashed.

_High-Altitude Personnel Insertion Carrier detected. Please wait while Individual Soldier Identification Serials are matched…_

Vicky patiently waited while she saw several ellipses flash on-screen, denoting the computer's processing. She didn't have to wait long—within seconds, a confirmation message flashed on-screen.

_HIGH-ALTITUDE PERSONNEL INSERTION CARRIER MATCH CONFIRMED. LANCE-CORPORAL VICTORIA MCVEY, CALLSIGN BOLT, ISIS: HA22437698, AGE 21; FIRST LEGION, FIRST COMPANY, FIFTH SECTION, SECOND FIRETEAM; _

Vicky blinked as a passport-sized snapshot of her suddenly blinked into life on her visor screen with all her information written out next to it. To be entirely truthful, she was freaking impressed with the tech boys to have cranked out this kind of sophisticated equipment.

_DESIGNATED FIRETEAM LEADER: CORPORAL VIKTOR KRUM, CALLSIGN: VLAD; DESIGNATED FIRETEAM MEMBERS: PRIVATE MICHELLE CARTIER, CALLSIGN: SNAP, LONG-RANGE WEAPON SPECIALIST; AND PRIVATE FREDERICK O'MALLEY, CALLSIGN: TANK, DEMOLITIONS AND HEAVY WEAPONS SPECIALIST._

Just like with her own information, her teammates also ended up on her visor screen, and she couldn't help but compare the grim-faced photographs with the far more lax mannerism they portrayed while not under the spotlight, so to speak. She was surprised, however, when the next bit of information flashed onto her screen—and the pod's hatch hadn't even been closed yet!

…_CONFIRMED. SECOND FIRETEAM DESIGNATED FOR SPECOPS. PLEASE STANDBY WHILE NEW ORDERS ARE RECEIVED…_

"Wha--?" she started to ask, but never even got the chance to finish as the hissing noise of her hatch's pistons blared to life, indicating that the hatch was being lowered. Before she had a chance to process the fact that she and her team were essentially being hijacked for another mission, however, the hatch had sealed itself shut, and from the tell-tale noise of bolts sliding into place, she was now stuck in her vacuum-sealed insertion pod.

The better side of things was that the communications system in her helmet clicked to life, and she quickly took advantage of that to seek out her team's channel.

"Tank? Snap? Vlad? This is Bolt, over," she spoke into her helmet's communicator, hearing it click when she began speaking. She imagined that it was the helmet's automatic voice-identifying system, although she'd never actually _heard_ of such a thing before. But then, she didn't understand much of the technology behind _any_ of her gear to begin with.

"_This…ank…opy?_" she heard a voice speaking through the comm channel, although it seemed to get cut off at times.

The sound of the chopped voice was quickly overcome by the melodious laughter of Snap. "This is Snap. You have to _activate_ the transmitter with your jaw before talking, Tank, over."

The next thing she heard was the embarrassed-sounding mumbling of Tank, and Vicky was suddenly glad that she'd somehow managed to blunder her way into making the device work on her own.

"_Cut the chatter, team_," then came Vlad's voice. "_This is Vlad; I am initiating team readiness check; please confirm._" he then ordered.

"_Roger that, team leader_; _Snap, green light._" came Michelle's response, which Vicky quickly added to.

"Bolt, green light."

"_Tank, green light_."

"_Vlad, green light._" Viktor then said. "_All team members, green light. Informing the CO now._"

Vicky heard a click over the radio and equally saw Viktor's written call-sign on her visor flash off its bolded state. That would be incredibly useful for knowing when they were on the radio or not.

"_Tank here; anyone else get that message about a SpecOps mission, over?_" Tank's voice suddenly asked after a moment of group silence.

Vicky pounced on the question immediately. "Bolt here," she spoke into her mike. "I got it too. Either of you guys know what that's about, over?"

"_Snap here, negative, over._"

Vicky heard a grumble and immediately knew that was Tank. "_Nothing good ever comes from SpecOps missions…_"

"_Tank, I'm sure Vlad wouldn't knowingly take us into something he knew we'd have no chance of getting out of,_" replied Michelle's soothing voice over the comm.

"What's his definition of acceptable odds, though?" mumbled Vicky to herself, taking care not to activate the communication link. Tank had a point—no soldier in their right mind _ever_ wanted in on Special Operations missions. They were high-risk, high-fatality rate inducing, and though their payoff was much larger than regular missions, not many thought the danger asked of them worth it.

"_Whatever…_" muttered Tank noncommittally over the comm. "_How long are we supposed to stay sitting in these tin cans, anyway? When's the damn drop going to happen?_"

Vicky was wondering that herself when Vlad's name suddenly flashed bold on her visor again.

"_This is Vlad; the CO has confirmed all teams as good to go and is relaying launch readiness codes to HQ. Prepare for imminent drop,_" he ordered tersely over the comm before then adding grimly, "_If you've got a God to pray to, now's the time._"

Suddenly, Vicky felt a little—okay, _very_—nervous about the impending drop. This was the first time anything of this type had _ever_ been attempted, and that didn't sit well with her. The technology she was wearing—the technology she was _sitting_ in was all very experimental, and it would remain so until this drop was carried out. But, given its experimental nature, that also meant that no one was sure whether or not the pod would actually deliver on its promise of a rapid and _safe_ landing. Hell, for all she knew, this pod would also be her coffin!

"Anyone else got a _very_ bad feeling about this drop?" she mumbled to herself, unknowingly activating her mike at the same time.

"_Amen, sister_," she heard Michelle's soft reply, startling her.

The fact that no one else replied, despite having clearly transmitted her thoughts, told Vicky that the other two probably agreed, or were polite enough to withhold any reprimands.

Just then, her visor flashed in warning once.

_WARNING!_

_DROP POINT IMMINENT. _

_PREPARE TO DROP._

That was when Vicky noticed a new name flash in her virtual communications "box." It was Captain Lyles.

"_Troopers!_" the captain called out through the comm. "_We are green, and very, __very__ mean!_"

Again, her visor flashed, and this time it was a countdown, starting from 10.

She visibly started when she felt the pod shake slightly as it was lowered down until the very bottom had breached the underbelly of the _Invincible_. As a result, she could no longer see anything but the steel hull of the Airship through the window of her hatch. From what she understood, the Airship was to make a flyby over the grounds and literally _fire_ the pods down towards the combat on the ground. From what she'd heard already, the Imperial Army under General Sulu was making a quasi-desperate last stand near the ruins of the Main Gate, and so far it seemed like they were effectively holding back the horde of enemy troops.

The countdown had not yet started, she noted. Still holding at 10, it almost felt like the computer was taunting her with how much time she had until her death claimed her. She knew that wasn't it, but that didn't mean she could shake off the feeling.

"_Tank here; what the bloody hell is the goddamn hold-up?_" asked Tank through the comm. Vicky wanted to know as well.

"_Apparently, General Sulu has not yet given the order for the airstrike. We are waiting for the order to come before deployment,_" relayed Vlad.

"_So we're just going to hang here until then?!_" Snap asked incredulously. "_Who's bright idea was that?!_"

"_We are going to drop, team; that's not optional. But until our ground forces tell us when and where to drop, we can't drop in without becoming liabilities,_" replied Vlad tersely.

Vicky could see the logic in that statement. Without a coordinated effort between ground forces and their own airstrike, things on the ground could quickly devolve into one side trying to rescue the other, or worse—one group (probably their own) getting massacred after being swarmed by the enemy.

So, impatiently waiting for the order to come for her and her team to drop from the skies, Vicky sat back and closed her eyes, hands still gripping the two sticks on her crash chair's arms.

* * *

_Hogwarts Main Gate Ruins…_

With a resounding boom, the ground near a running pair of soldiers visibly exploded with tremendous violent force—undoubtedly fatal had the two soldiers been running any nearer to it. As it were, they were lucky and managed to reach their injured comrade who was hiding behind a rather large piece of mountain rock that had fallen when the gate was buried.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ!" swore one of them as he slid in the mud and ended up beside his injured brother-in-arms. "The goddamn fuckers are getting more accurate by the second!"

His running companion, a dark-haired man barely a year older than him, glared at him as he, too, slid into position behind the rock. "You think?!" he snapped, before turning his intense gaze on their injured comrade. "Porter, you alright?"

The man in question groaned as he clutched the stump that had once been his left arm. He sent the dark-haired man an intense glare in response. "Oh, I'm just peachy, Connor!" he yelled over the sound of the ground exploding around their cover. "My fuckin' _arm's_ been blown off, you motherless twat!"

Connor glared right back. "No need to get shirty, Porter!" he snapped back—just in time to hear the ground in front of the rock they were using for cover explode. "Fuck!" he cried out, ducking down further to avoid getting hit by _any_ sort of shrapnel.

Connor's companion glared at the two of them. "If you two are quite done with the goddamn pillow talk, how about we get out of here before they zero in on us?!"

"Fuck you, Jacobs!" Porter managed to groan out as a fresh shot of pain raced through his system. Connor, on the other hand, was much more practical about things.

"You cover me—I'll piggy back him back to the camp!" he yelled at Jacobs, who nodded and gave a thumbs up in acknowledgement.

Jacobs quickly got into a kneeling position and, using the rock to cover most of his body, randomly opened fire on the advancing enemy lines as Connor worked to slide the semi-conscious Porter onto his back.

It took about five minutes to make _that_ happen, and by then Jacobs was getting rather impatient with his companions.

"What the _fuck_ are you waiting for, Connor?!" demanded Jacobs as he got back down again just in time to avoid getting diced into a million pieces by incoming spellfire. "A goddamned invitation?!"

Connor glared right back. "He keeps sliding off! He's not even conscious enough to hold on!" he snapped back.

"Then _strap_ him on!" ground out Jacobs before getting back to his knees and once again opening fire at the enemy. He didn't even glance back down as he kept giving advice. "And make it quick! I'm gonna run out of ammo any minute now, and after that, we're _all_ fucked!"

"Jesus Christ…" mumbled Connor as he ripped apart some of Porter's trousers and made a makeshift strap out of it, which he used to tie the wounded man to him via the waist. Eventually, he was ready to go. "Set!" he called out to Jacobs, who merely grunted in acknowledgement and kept up a steady rate of fire.

Taking a deep breath and struggling to get to a crouched ready stance that wouldn't hurt his speed, Connor quickly and suddenly sprang into a sprint towards the Imperial lines, which had slowly receded twenty meters from where they currently were. Not a whole lot, technically speaking, but too damn far when one had to run said distance in open ground in the middle of a warzone.

He was distantly aware of the fact that Jacobs was running behind him, albeit backwards and constantly firing pot-shots at the enemy skirmish line in a desperate attempt to keep their heads bowed and their aim off—automatons though they might be. They weren't unlimited in number, after all, and whoever had conjured them would have to spend significant amounts of magic trying to create new ones to replenish the numbers they'd already lost.

Ten meters left—already he could make out some of his comrades getting out from behind cover to provide the trio with covering fire. Behind him, however, he heard Jacobs swear as he slipped in the mud and fell to the ground with a loud splash. Connor almost turned to help him, but Jacobs quickly shouted that off.

"Keep moving, goddamn it!" he shouted. "You're the one with the goddamn wounded!"

Slipping slightly in the mud, Jacobs nonetheless quickly got to his feet and scrambled back towards the lines, only to then slip again and fall down as he hit a particularly splashy and slippery patch of mud. This time, however, he wasn't so lucky in his recovery, and upon trying to get to his feet, he was hit with a slashing curse to the back of the head, killing him instantly and causing him to fall face-first into the mud.

Connor, however, had no notion of this and instead kept running like all hell towards the lines, where friendly fire was busy covering his escape. Eight meters, seven, five, three…

Helpful arms shot out from behind trench cover to help him get down in the makeshift trench system the remaining Shielders had managed to dig up in record time. With a tug, Connor was in the trench system, face down and groaning, and Porter along with him, his dead weight bearing down on the healthier man. Two men scrambled to him to help take Porter off his back, while the rest moved up to the edge of the trench and readied their rifles.

"OPEN FIRE!" shouted a grizzled sergeant down the line, and the whole line did so, the cacophony of rifle fire quickly drowning out any other speech.

Connor was helped onto his feet by two more servicemen while Porter was hauled off to the nearest emergency aid station deeper within the Imperial lines.

"Jacobs?" coughed out Connor when he got to his feet. The man to his left shook his head. "How?" he asked, knowing exactly that the shake meant.

"Back of the head, Slicer," came the short reply.

"Fuck!" cursed Connor, stomping his foot into the ground violently. He knew he wasn't to blame for Jacobs' death, and that his comrade had volunteered to be rear-guard, but that didn't make the knowledge of his death any lighter on his soul.

Still, he had a job to do, and as much as he wished he could mourn the death of his companion, he couldn't shirk his duty. Grabbing his rifle, he told his supporters that he was alright and made his way down the line to the nearest ammunition dump.

Off to the side, further down the line, Sulu watched as the man he'd seen run to get a wounded man back to friendly lines walked off to continue doing his duty. Over sixty thousand men had entered the valley to retake the ancient castle in the Empire's name, and about 200 of those had died, with 800 or so more lying in makeshift hospital beds as medics did their very best to stop them from dying. Enemy casualties were much higher—which always cheered him up slightly—but their remaining forces were still outnumbering his own. By how much, he couldn't tell, but they were still enough to make him pause whenever the idea of charging into the fray was brought up.

He looked up to the sky—still empty. Well, that was his fault, to be honest. He knew the wards were down for a while now, and he had even received confirmation that their airborne reinforcements were ready to go, but he had nonetheless delayed that for now. Why? Well, quite simply, there was nowhere to land from the skies that _didn't_ end up in the mass of enemy golems that were bearing down on his lines over and over again.

So instead of ordering troop reinforcements, he'd requested ammunition—lots of it. Within minutes, his request had been delivered when a number of large aircraft had flown over their position and dropped several crates of various types of ammunition, plus a little something extra—a couple of _Basilisk_-class field guns. So far, his people had barely managed to get _one_ of the monster artillery pieces working, and they were having trouble setting up the second one. Rocks had to be rolled over to provide ample cover for them, too, given that they weren't positioned within the trench system itself, but rather on open ground (due in part to their unreasonable size). He'd lost about 20 men setting the first one up, and the casualty count for the second had gone up to 10 in the last few minutes. It'd been nothing short of divine intervention that the count hadn't been just as high as with the first one.

Sulu bit back a snort. That reminded him of how the pilot had announced the ammunition drop.

"_Usually,_" the pilot had said, sounding very serious, "_the good Lord works in mysterious ways. But not today! Along with these wonderful crates of holy retribution, the good Lord has seen fit to provide you boys with these here seventy-tons of death-spewing divine intervention! Have fun, boys!_"

Sulu had laughed then, and he was hard-pressed not to laugh now. Regardless of the humour, however, the utility of the artillery pieces was unquestionable; one shot from one of them—which would then be followed by about ten minutes of reloading—was enough to blow a crater-sized hole in the enemy ranks. The problem was that since they were so big and difficult to reload, it took an unreasonable amount of time to get them to cause enough significant damage on the enemy. Plus, once the drop happened, they'd have to cease firing altogether.

Still, the pieces did well enough on their own, considering that they had all of their previous artillery pieces when the collapsing mountainsides buried the main gate.

Even worse, he hadn't heard from Neville's detachment since the lake crossing fiasco. He knew that they had survived the cross, and that they had managed to climb the cliff after having vaporized the staircase leading up to the castle, but beyond that, nothing else had been heard from the Brigadier General.

Sulu heard a low beep and looked down at his wrist, where his watch was now blinking as it sounded a beeping alarm as ordered. It was a good thing the damn anti-tech ward had been brought down—it gave him access to a whole slew of new tactics and equipment to use, including an electronic watch he'd pilfered from the ammo dump.

He turned to an aide and nodded. "Time. Check again," he ordered curtly. He didn't need to elaborate, either. It was pretty much routine procedure at this point that at specifically designated times, a radio contact check would be made in order to locate the missing elements of Neville's group.

"Bravo-Golf-Lima, Bravo-Golf-Lima, this is Foxtrot-Golf-Sierra-Zero-Niner; request radio check, over," Sulu heard the radio technician speak into his helmet-mounted microphone. "I say again, this is Foxtrot-Golf-Sierra-Zero-Niner, request radio check, over."

Sulu watched the man wait for a minute before glancing back up at his commander and giving a silent shake of his head. Sulu sighed.

"Keep trying for ten minutes," ordered Sulu. "If they don't respond, mark them MIA and relay the situation to headquarters."

The radio technician nodded. "Sir!"

Sulu then turned away from the man, ignoring the repeated request for a radio check. The black-skinned general glared at the incoming lines of enemy troops from behind the cover of the trench walls. He didn't know how much longer they could keep this up before the Imperial lines were overrun, despite the constant rotation of soldiers to the front trenches. The enemy had no fear of death, after all, and could easily march forward until they reached the Imperial lines. The only reason they hadn't, so far, was because Sulu had his men hinder their movement severely by dropping so many of them that the bodies ended up working as roadblocks. That, plus the craters left behind by a _Basilisk_ shot, had forced the enemy to retreat several times to reorganize themselves.

Sulu cursed. He needed a way to distract the enemy while he reinforced his lines with additional cover and trench works. Ideally, Neville's group would get back into contact and he would order them to seize the second gate, thereby forcing the enemy into a killing zone on both their front and rear flank. So far, however, there had been no communication with Neville, and that left that option unusable. He knew he could order his reinforcements to drop behind the gate and _then_ take it, but by then the element of surprise would be gone the moment the troopers hit ground, and there was an enemy rearguard close enough to the second gate that they would probably reach the gate before any Imperial trooper, dropped or not.

Sulu bit his thumb in frustration as he considered his options. These reinforcements were supposed to be rapid-deployment fireteams that could be used to instil chaos and disorganization within enemy lines, but at the moment, all he could think about was how to use them to capture heavily defended positions—not what they were meant for.

He turned his head towards the radio technician. "Anything yet?" he asked brusquely.

The radioman shook his head. "Sorry sir, zip."

Sulu sighed. That probably meant that Neville was dead. Wouldn't _that_ be a wonderful piece of news to relay to Susan…Sulu shivered. The idea of telling the highly capable redhead of her boyfriend's—or was it ex's?—death was not something he ever wanted to consider, if only for reasons of personal safety.

"Alright, cut the line," he told the radioman, who nodded. "No point in trying anymore. Mark 'em MIA and tell HQ we've lost the totality of the Lake contingent."

"Yes, sir," said the radioman as he moved his hand to click off the mike on his helmet. He was just about to when he heard a light buzzing sound in his earpiece. "Eh?"

Sulu glanced down. "What is it, soldier?"

The radioman shrugged. "Dunno, sir, but I'm getting something over the line. Sounds like interference, though."

Sulu considered that for a moment before shrugging right back. "Someone probably stepped on a mike by accident. Cut the line."

Again, the radioman was about to when he heard the buzzing noise again. Narrowing his eyes, he focused his attention on the noise, and nearly jumped when he finally made out a voice talking through the noise.

"…_ay…again…avo…go…ima…ive…five…_"

The radioman blinked. The message was butchered almost beyond recognition, but he could extrapolate the full meaning of the sentence easily enough.

_I say again; Bravo-Golf-Lima, reading you five by five._

The man's eyes widened as he turned to his general excitedly. "Sir! We've got contact with General Longbottom!"

Sulu's eyes widened comically as he heard the news, and he quickly demanded the frequency the radioman was using and inputted it into his own communicator.

"Longbottom, this is Sulu, respond!" he barked into his own mike. "I say again, Longbottom, this is Sulu, respond at once!"

Like the radioman, he could hear severe amounts of interference over the radio, but also someone talking through the noise.

"…_eading…ou…ive…y…five…ulu…_"

Sulu sighed. There was nothing for it—this was probably the best he was going to get. He assumed the castle's proximity was causing the group's communicators to go haywire. Still, this opened a whole new avenue of tactics, and Sulu felt quite excited by that prospect.

"General, I've got a problem to my front and no way out to my back," relayed Sulu. "I need you to take the second gate as quietly as possible to relieve the pressure on my line; can you do that?"

Sulu waited patiently before he heard the noise again. "…_oger…that…neral…king…eco…ate…_" he heard Neville say before the line was cut.

Sulu grinned. This was perfect. If the second gate fell to their hands, then he could order the airborne troops to land behind it and help secure the strategic point. Furthermore, it meant that the entire enemy army would be stuck between his forces and the second gate, meaning that he could also ask for direct aerial bombardment of the area and all they would hit would be enemy troops.

Sulu quickly switched his frequency to that of the _Invincible_. "_Invincible_, _Invincible_, this is General John Sulu, please respond," he said. Immediately, a response came through the link.

"_General Sulu, this is Invincible. We read you five by five. What can we do for you, General?_"

"We have re-established communication with General Longbottom's missing detachment. I say again, we have re-established communications with General Longbottom's missing detachment. I have ordered him to take the second gate, and upon completion of said mission, I request that the airborne reinforcements drop behind the gate so as to establish a killing zone between my line and the second gate."

A pause as the information was relayed to Admiral Wolf, no doubt.

"_General Sulu, this is Invincible, affirmative on airborne redeployment request. Out._"

Sulu nodded to himself as he heard the line go dead and turned to his radioman. "Relay orders to all troops: Upon the capture of the second gate, we are to press the enemy back while the Shielders work to extend our lines forward," he told the technician, who nodded and immediately went to work relaying his boss' orders.

Pleased that his orders were being carried out, Sulu sat down on a metal box that had once carried grenades and leaned back against the wet earth that made the back of this particular trench. He had nothing to do now but wait until everything fell into place.

* * *

_HMAS Invincible Pod Deployment Bay…_

Vicky had almost fallen asleep as she waited for the drop to happen. It had been two hours since they had been placed in standby, and all throughout that, she had deactivated her communicator, leaned back, crossed her arms across her chest, and tried to relax her nerves—to the point she kept nodding her head in sleepiness. She knew exactly why she was in danger of falling asleep, too.

She was _bored_.

At least when the drop was imminent, there had been a fierce inner battle between her nerves and her determination to carry out her duty. There had been the banter between her teammates to keep her occupied—but now there was nothing but silence as everyone was forced to wait inside their titanium-wrought insertion pods.

Hell, she had even tried, out of a mixture of curiosity and desperation to dispel her boredom, to see if her visor computer had some virtual card games she could play while she waited—no dice. She had sung several of her favourite songs to herself as well, but even _that_ got old. She also heard Snap and Tank play what seemed to be a variation of I Spy, only that the targets all were the internal systems of the insertion pods. To be honest, even _that_ had gotten old, and the two had eventually descended into silence.

Then, just as she was about to doze off, her entire pod became suddenly bathed in red light and drowned in blaring alarm noise, jolting her out of her sleepy stupor.

"What the f—?!" she started crying out, but quickly calmed herself when she saw her visor computer turning on. A message quickly wrote itself on her visor, and she felt her heart speed up.

_WARNING!_

_ATMOSPHERIC DROP SHOCK TROOPER DROP BACK ON SCHEDULE._

_PREPARE TO DROP._

_DROP IN: 10 SECONDS_

All at once, the comm chatter of the company skyrocketed as the message flashed three times on their screen.

"_Tank here, anyone else get the fire alarm routine?_"

"_This is Snap; boss, is this for real?_"

"_This is Vlad; copy that, team. Drop is confirmed. I say again, drop is confirmed. Pucker up, troopers, 'cause this time we're definitely going down!_"

Indeed, Vicky watched as the countdown started to go down second by second. She could feel cold sweat forming on her forehead as she realized that this was it. All at once, it felt like every nervous thought she had prior to the delay came back and hit her in full force.

Very dimly, she could hear what sounded like a motor building up power, and her fear doubled.

'_Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord…'_ she thought, her eyes tightly shut. '_This is __such__ a bad idea!_'

Then, as expected, the counter hit zero, and Vicky instantly felt her stomach jump. She watched, in fear, as the blackness of the launch tube was almost instantly replaced by the blue horizon of the sky. Looking out her hatch window, she could see clouds _far_ beneath her, and a glance at one of the digital instruments inside the pod told her that she was currently at 59,000 ft and dropping—_fast_.

"_Jesus fuckin' Christ we're high!_" she heard Tank through the comm. "_I thought the swabbies said we were at airplane altitude!_"

Vicky heard a giggle through the comm and immediately attributed it to Snap. "_It's pretty! Have you ever seen a clearer sky?_"

Vicky had to hand the Quebecker girl that—the sky was pristine blue from where she was, and she could even make out the stars in the blackness of space without trouble. Being born in Melbourne, Australia, she had not had much of a chance to see a clear night sky, so this was a rarity and a wonder at the same time.

"_I'm more concerned about what's beneath us, to be honest,_" retorted Tank, though his response was a bit drowned out by the sound of Vlad chuckling.

"_We'll be fine._"

Vicky wished she could be as confident about that as Vlad sounded. She really did. However, knowing that she was literally in free fall towards the ground terrified her, and there was little she could do to make that feeling go away.

Then, just as she felt a panic attack swelling up in her chest, she blinked as she heard music filtering in through the comm. It was especially odd in that it wasn't hard rock or anything loud. Rather, it actually sounded like Staff Sergeant Miller singing, and it was in _Gaelic_, to boot.

"_Gafflwn Dihenydd, o'r fuddugoliaeth wiriol sydd…_" she heard the impressively soft voice of the Staff sing. "_Ni fydd neb yn ein Drechu, Falch ydy ni i drochu traed o flaen i'r Annwn yn y gwybodaeth fe godwn ni…"_

She didn't know what it was about the Staff Sergeant's singing that did it, but Vicky suddenly felt a lot less anxious about the drop, careening through the air though she was. It wasn't a song with much variation, either. Those same words were repeated over and over again, sort of like a mixture between prayer and song, and no one seemed to dare interrupt her.

To be honest, Vicky had always imagined that troopers that would willingly careen down the skies in free fall would be some sort of adrenaline junkies, and so had imagined that if they _were_ to have theme music, hard rock would probably be it. Yet, even as she herself participated in the first such tactical drop, she couldn't think of a more appropriate tune to listen to as she fell feet first into hell.

Silently, the Staff's tune still filtering in through the comm, she watched as her altimeter's digital reading dropped phenomenally fast.

50,000 feet and dropping.

As expected, air resistance was making her pod shake slightly, but according to her instruments, it was still very much on target. Her grip on her hand-sticks tightened as she felt her pod shake a little more violently than usual. Yet again, however, her instruments told her everything was fine, and she figured that if she couldn't trust the pod's systems, then she was screwed to begin with.

The wait as she dropped seemed interminable. Then, at 45,000 feet, she suddenly felt the pod jolt and a message on one of the pod's instruments alerted her that it was due to the pod's chute deploying, thereby slowing down her fall. Despite the jolt, however, she could still hear the Staff Sergeant singing—or so she assumed. For all she knew, the singing was a recording.

Still, there was something bugging her, and that was the previous message regarding a special op for her fireteam. Tapping at an exposed keyboard to her right, she quickly inputted the visual communication system codes for her team, bringing up their images on the three screens inside her pod.

"_Bolt?_" asked Vlad in confusion. "_What's up?_"

Vicky quickly got down to business. "Sorry, boss, but I was wondering whether you had any idea what our special op mission was," she told the team, eliciting various reactions. Tank and Snap both seemed to nod in agreement with her request, while Vlad shrugged.

"_Sorry, Bolt. I'm as much in the dark as you are. If there is a special mission set up for us, I haven't been told about it._"

Vicky thought for a moment. "Would it show up if we inputted a request for it in the pod computer?"

She saw Vlad shake his head. "_The computer's not linked to the mission control computers on the Invincible. Only our visor computers are, and those only accept a very limited range of voice commands. Headquarters is the only one capable of sending additional information."_

Vicky cursed under her breath at her boss' response. She _really_ wanted to know what she was being conscripted into doing.

"_Well, whatever it is,_" opined Tank, "_it can't __possibly__ be more dangerous than dropping from the sky in free fall in a big, metal coffin."_

Vicky flinched, and Snap's body language told her that the woman had probably grimaced.

"_Nice, Tank. Great way of keeping our nerves intact_," was Vlad's sardonic response.

"_Just sayin'…_"

30,000 feet and dropping.

"_So here's a question,_" Snap spoke up. "_If we're supposed to be quickly dropped into combat, why drop us all the way up here?_"

"_No one to spot us coming up here, I reckon._"

"_I get that, Vlad, but if we're supposed to be quickly dropped in as reinforcements, wouldn't it just be easier to make the drop, say, at fifteen thousand feet instead of sixty?_"

"The chutes are probably geared for higher altitude drops," Vicky interjected. "Lower drop means less chance of decreasing our speed in time for us _not_ to become a pancake lookalike when we hit ground."

"_Niiice, Bolt_."

"At least _I_ didn't call the pod a metal coffin, Tank."

A giggle was heard through the comm.

"_She's got you there, Tank_," said Vlad.

A grumble, followed by a moment of silence.

20,000 feet and dropping.

Vicky looked out the window and could make out more pods around her own, also falling at similar height levels, although there were some differences, which she attributed to air drag. The chutes had surprised her when she'd first seen some of them deploy from the other pods. Rather than being fabric, they were entirely made out of metal it seemed, and she guessed that the reason for it was that at their speed, a fabric chute would have been ripped to shreds.

15,000 feet and dropping.

Vicky was _bored_. At first, terrified, sure. But now? Dear Maker, she wanted the whole thing to be over with!

10,000 feet and dropping.

"_Hey, I can see something down there!_" Tank suddenly said over the comm.

"_Tank, for the last time. Colour splotches do __not__ count as distinct landmarks._"

Another giggle.

"_It's not a splotch! And besides, you can't tell me that didn't look like the castle!"_

"_Unlike you, Tank, I've actually __been__ to Hogwarts before. That wasn't the castle. It wasn't even grey, for goodness' sake! How did you ever pass your physical with such poor eyesight?"_

Vicky audibly snorted. "He doesn't need to see right, so long as he points the business end of his guns at the enemy and not at us!" she jibed.

A bark of laughter from Tank and an appreciative chuckle from Vlad.

"_Well said, Bolt!_" came the giggling reply from Snap.

5,000 feet and dropping.

"_All teams, please be advised: drop site visual is now possible; I say again, drop site visual is now possible_," came Captain Lyles' report over the comm. Indeed, looking out the window, she could clearly make out the Hogwarts Valley, and a dark blotch on the terrain that kept shifting imperceptibly on the grounds that she assumed was the enemy army. Plus, the castle was tiny, but distinguishable now—though the second gate wasn't.

3,000 feet and dropping.

Another warning flashed onto her visor.

_WARNING!_

_TOUCHDOWN IMMINENT. DEPLOYING SECONDARY CHUTE._

Indeed, seconds after she'd finished reading, her pod jolted a bit again as she heard two things happen all at once. The first was the sound of something getting detached, and the second was of something opening. Looking out the window, she was barely able to see that several of the pods had lost their metallic chutes and new ones—these ones also made of metal but in an umbrella shape (as opposed to the cross-shaped primary chutes)—deploy right away. To her eyes, it looked like the pods had been suddenly pulled up.

2,000 feet and dropping.

The pod was shaking a whole lot more now, probably as a result of much heavier air resistance as they careened to the ground. Still, her mind wasn't focused on the significant turbulence—it was focused on the fact that another message had flashed onto her visor.

_WARNING!_

_FIRST LEGION, FIRST COMPANY, FIFTH SECTION, SECOND FIRETEAM HAS BEEN DESIGNATED FOR SPECIAL OPERATIONS MISSION. DETAILS FOLLOW:_

_OBJECTIVE: RETRIEVE VIP FROM HOGWARTS CASTLE AND ESCORT TO EXTRACTION POINT. PASSPHRASE: PHOENIX DOWN._

_SECONDARY OBJECTIVES: RECON AND/OR CAPTURE ANY OF THE FOLLOWING RANKING MEMBERS OF THE ENEMY FORCES, DESIGNATED "PURISTS":_

_BARTEMIUS CROUCH JUNIOR_

_NARCISSA MALFOY, N__é__E BLACK_

_ANTONIN DOLOHOV_

"_Oh, you've got to be fuckin' __kidding__ me!"_ she could hear Tank swearing over the comm. She completely understood, too—she felt like swearing herself.

"_One team to infiltrate Hogwarts, rescue a VIP, __get him out__ of Hogwarts, __and__ capture enemy leaders?_" Snap sounded incredulous. _"Sir, no offense, but has HQ absolutely __lost__ it?_"

"_Lost it or not, that's our mission, team_," was Vlad's terse reply. "_So suck it up and, once we hit ground, grab your gear, check your ammo and mikes, and get ready to infiltrate Hogwarts._"

"Fuck," was Vicky's only response to the situation. It was appropriate, too. The mere idea of infiltrating the enemy headquarters was a bat-shit crazy plan to begin with, but this just took the cake!

"_Look, if it makes you guys feel any better, I don't like it any more than you do_," Vlad sounded exasperated. "_But orders are orders, and HQ isn't run by a bunch of monkeys on speed. You gotta trust them to make the right decisions, or else we're really__ screwed._"

1,000 feet and dropping.

The sound of explosions was becoming more and more apparent, and only by straining your ears could you make out the sound of gunfire over the screaming noise of the falling pods.

"_Sir, I'm just saying, do we even __know__ where the VIP __is__ in the castle?_" Snap was asking Vlad.

The debate on the mission's soundness had been going on since they had first received their instructions, and the team's disbelief hadn't abated since then. Rather, they were all sceptical about their ability to pull it off, and the lack of intel they were given. Where they seriously supposed to just storm the castle and just wing it for the rest?

"_I know, Snap, I know_," came Vlad's reply. "_We'll have to look at all the usual suspects, I guess. The towers, dungeons, and maybe Headmaster's office._"

"What about the eating hall?" asked Vicky.

"_Too exposed to be a safe place. Towers too, for that matter, but their bases are pretty solidly built. Those might be ideal places for our VIP to be held._"

"_So we just run pell mell through the enemy HQ __trying__ to find someone whose name we don't even __know__?"_ asked Tank. "_Yeah, this is going to go __great__."_

"_Quit your bitching, Tank, and get set for imminent landing. The moment those hatches blow open, I want us to meet fifteen meters from the castle entrance on my position, clear?_"

Various variations of acknowledgement followed from Vicky and the rest of her team.

"_Good. Now get set. We're entering the fifty meters zone._"

Indeed, the moment they did, the pod shook again as its computer-controlled breaking propulsion system fired up. Though they were still falling quite fast, She noticed that the rate of descent was being slowed down considerably, making her feel more at ease—though it didn't prevent her from squeezing the grip sticks on her chair for all they were worth.

Soon enough, she felt her pod crash into the ground, and she was hard pressed to keep her neck straight, lest she get whiplash from the impact. Still, she couldn't help but let out a nervous giggle that she was still, in fact, very much alive despite the insane drop.

Any thoughts of relief, however, were quickly dismissed as the pod's systems beeped at her in alarm. It wasn't a danger alarm, however—merely a notice that the pod's hatch was about to open. Letting go of the grip-sticks, she turned and grabbed her equipment from the secure slots to her sides. Within seconds, her combat weaponry was all set to go, and when the hatch did open, she was out instantly, already running for the castle's entrance while the rest of her fellow troopers ran past her towards the second gate, which sounded as though it was under heavy assault.

Vicky paid it no heed. She had her own mission, her own team. Within seconds, she noticed Vlad reaching the meeting point first, and quickly sprinted her way to him, kneeling when she got there, as he had.

Vlad nodded at her. "Good to see you in one piece, Bolt," he greeted seriously through the inter-team comm. "Seen Tank or Snap yet?"

Vicky was about to shake her head when two more voices added themselves to the conversation.

"Tank here, I'm on your six and coming up."

"This is Snap, I'll be there in a minute. My rifle got stuck in its slot!"

Soon enough, the foursome of the fifth section's second fireteam was assembled, all of them kneeling and facing each other. Vlad took the initiative then and began to speak.

"Okay, here's what we know," he said, tracing a crude map on the ground. "The front doors seem impossible to open, but I've had a chat with some people from General Longbottom's group and there may be a passageway into the castle from this cliff. We go in through there, see where we end up, and once we get our bearings, we go looking for our VIP, got it?"

"Got it," the three other members said in unison.

"Bolt, you're on point. I'm second, Snap's third, and I want you, Tank, on rearguard. Clear?"

"Yes, sir!"

Vlad nodded once before getting up. "Alright then. Let's rock this place."

* * *

_Post-AN: As always, please review. Not only do they tell me how my readers feel about what I write, they also tell me when I cross the line or bungle up. Remember, however, flaming is not constructive criticism--it's being a child. - MB_


	45. Chapter XXXVIII: Mayday, Mayday, Mayday

_AN: Next chapter! Also, this might be the last chapter I post before Christmas, so just in case: Merry Christmas!_

* * *

_Unknown Location…_

Any appearances of civility between the two figures had long since vanished. The taller of the two, spindly, pale, and almost inhuman to look at, kept raging throughout the room, the sound of chains haunting his every step as he physically tried to destroy his surroundings.

The smaller figure—though not by much—had instead opted to stay in his seat, a smug grin on his face as he watched his rival lose hold of his patience. In this game, losing one's patience meant defeat, and he was glad he had not been the first to break. Yet, even as he crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture of superiority, he too could hear the sound of chains rattling as he moved his limbs.

The taller figure turned and pointed at his counterpart in rage.

"YOU!" he raged, spittle flying through the air, but falling well short of the shorter man. "End this pathetic charade at once! I demand you release me!"

The shorter figure kept his smug grin—it was appropriate. "Not a chance, my dear fellow. As long as you're here, you're not _there_."

A flash of cunning appeared in the taller man's eyes. "But that goes both ways, too. While you're here, keeping me locked up in this…cage of yours, you can't be out there helping your people!"

The shorter man shrugged indifferently. "That would be a problem, I suppose, if my subordinates were incompetent. Thankfully, I have surrounded myself with quite the cast of bright minds."

The smug way the shorter man had spoken simply infuriated his rival, and the shorter man knew it.

"What's the matter? Shouldn't your forces be able to work things out by themselves? That's what _good_ subordinates do, isn't it?" he taunted.

The taller figure snarled and tried to deck his shorter rival, but the punch, predictably, simply passed right through him as though he wasn't there.

The smaller figure laughed outright at the futile action.

"Really? _Really_?" he asked incredulously. "Did you forget? This place isn't _real_. _That's_," he motioned towards his counterpart. "not your real body—or even your actual appearance, I'm guessing—nor can it feel pain, or touch things."

The taller figure glared. "_You_ can," he pointed out, somewhat petulantly.

The smaller man smirked. "Well, it stands to reason. This _is_ my mind," he said smugly. "I'd hate to see what _yours_ looks like. Probably all death and dungeons, or something along those lines."

The older man shrugged, either not interested in denying it, or tacitly admitting to it.

His rival merely smiled. "Besides, you're _my_ prisoner, not the other way around."

The taller figure snarled. "Only until I garner enough concentration to shake off this ridiculous link!"

The shorter man laughed. "Why do you think I've been making you play games or talk?" he asked knowingly. "Every time you follow my lead, you lose all the focus you need to break this chain. Hell, unless you're able to completely block out the sound of my _voice_, you won't be able to. Not until _I_ say so."

The taller figure growled audibly. "And when will _that_ be?"

The shorter man merely smiled complacently. "When the time is right."

* * *

_Hogwarts Castle_

Never had the hallowed halls of Hogwarts Castle been witness to so much noise before. The sound of Tank's L2A1 heavy support weapon drowned out all other sound as said trooper poured lead down the halls of the once hallowed castle. So far, their mission had been one disaster after a problem after a hitch after another. They had found the way into the castle via the cave that General Longbottom and his troops had used to rest after their epic climb up the cliff, and almost from the get-go, they had found opposition.

Opposition which went against all their alleged intel.

Everyone had assumed that since the second gate had been unmanned, the castle would also be empty, given that it meant that the entirety of the enemy troops were on the field. How wrong they had been.

The fireteam had been forced to dash down several corridors before they had been able to lose their pursuers—but not for long. Thankfully, it _was_ long enough for them to raid several rooms of their furniture and create a makeshift barricade, upon which Tank had then set up his L2A1 and begun tearing up the hallway with fiery lead. Dozens of the enemy fell at a time every time he swooped the machine gun left and right, and his ammunition belt went through spasms every time the gun spouted flame and metal. Over all that noise, Tank could be heard whooping as he tore down the enemy ranks trying to make their way to his team's position.

Still, they couldn't stay here forever. They had a mission to accomplish, improbable though that seemed now. Still, improbable wasn't impossible, so they were willing to risk it.

The problem was whether or not they left Tank alone.

"Whatever Tank says, we can't just leave him alone here," Vlad said flatly. "Those walking statues just need a few seconds to reach him while he reloads before he's done for, and I'm not willing to sacrifice men for nothing."

Snap nodded. "So, who stays?"

Vlad glanced at his two female subordinates, though the polarized visor glass prevented them from knowing this. It took a few minutes, but finally he seemed to make up his mind.

"I'm staying," he declared, to their surprise. "You two are much faster and agile than I am, and I trust you two enough to see the job through, no matter what happens."

A slight shift in Vicky's posture showed that she had glanced at Snap for a second, and Vlad immediately understood the unasked question.

"Bolt, you're team leader. That alright, Snap?" asked Vlad, turning his head slightly to face his other female subordinate.

Snap nodded once. "It's fine, sir. Bolt outranks me anyway," she replied easily, and Vicky could just imagine the Quebecker woman giving a small self-deprecating smile.

Vlad nodded, pleased that there wasn't going to be any trouble over this.

"Alright, then," he then said. "Considering our position, I recommend you two start with the Great Hall, then move to the towers if the VIP isn't there."

"Why not the dungeons?" asked Snap. "Wouldn't that be more defensible and harder to access?"

Vlad nodded. "It would, but it would also serve as a horrible place from which to direct any offensives, and my gut tells me that moving golems isn't something you can do blindly."

The two women nodded, accepting his analysis at face value. Vlad was the only wizard of their group, after all, and they had no way of personally knowing whether that was true or not.

So instead, they saluted Vlad rigidly, and their CO responded by returning the salute just as rigidly before turning and manning the barricade alongside Tank, the combined noise of their weapons managing to drown out any other noise there might have been in the decimated hallway.

Without taking a glance back, Vicky nudged her head down the other way, and Snap nodded once in acquiescence. In seconds, the female duo was barrelling down the hallway, weapons readied should the enemy pop out of somewhere unexpected.

Within her helmet, Vicky had brought up the floor-plans of the castle on her visor screen and was quietly guiding herself via the two flickering dots on the map, which denoted herself and Snap.

"How much further?" she heard Snap ask.

"Twenty meters, then a left turn," she quickly replied, glad that the helmet's communicators prevented anyone else from hearing them. As they neared the corner she'd previously mentioned, she raised a fist and the two quickly came to a halt, their bodies lined up against the adjacent wall.

Vicky turned her head to look at Snap. "I'll cover. You go for the opposite corner," she suggested. Snap nodded in agreement.

Vicky raised a hand—the one _not_ on the trigger—and put up three fingers. She then lowered one. Then the next.

Snap's body tensed up in anticipation.

The third finger went down and the two sprung into action.

Sweeping down into a crouch, Vicky brought her weapon to bear as she turned the corner—making sure that it still covered most of her body—and got ready to fire at anything that might have entered into her field of vision.

For her part, Snap had darted across the open hallway towards the opposing corner, where she quickly lined herself up against the wall, took a deep breath, then emulated Vicky by sweeping down into a crouch and taking aim at the short spread of hallway that led to the Great Hall's doors.

There was nothing.

Both women sighed in relief, but were no less alert for it. They were deep in enemy territory, so there was no telling what could suddenly spring out of nowhere. Plus, they could still hear the noise coming from their makeshift barricade, which was bound to attract unwanted attention.

Looking down the hallway, Vicky estimated that there was about 15 meters between them and the double doors. She quickly clicked on her team radio.

"I estimate fifteen meters between us and the doors. No cover along the hallway," she stated evenly.

"Confirmed. I estimate fifteen meters as well," replied Snap dutifully. "How do you want to do this, Bolt?"

Vicky thought for a moment. "Standard two-man team deployment. I'll go in first, you're on my arse."

"Copy that."

It was a testament to how far "in the zone" the team was that neither Vlad nor Tank had taken advantage of the fact that Vicky and Snap were talking on the team radio to make lewd comments about Vicky's choice of words.

Slowly, Vicky came out from behind the corner and hugged her wall, still moving in a crouched position. She wasn't about to give her enemies more of a target by standing up. Moments after she'd come out, Snap emulated her by coming out from behind her corner and quickly making her way towards her superior, though doing so in an upright position.

"Anything?" asked Vicky through the comm.

"Negative. No movement. Looks like we're clear."

Vicky nodded to herself and picked up the pace slightly, quickly closing the distance between her and the doors. Despite however mindful she was about the noise they were making, however, she grimaced as she could clearly hear the tapping of her boots against the cobblestoned ground.

"You'd think that with the amount of renovations they've put this place through over the centuries, they'd remodel the freakin' floor," she muttered angrily.

"They probably thought it part of the castle's charm," ventured Snap as she swept her weapon's sights left to right and back.

"Were they right?" asked Vicky, curious.

"Hell no. It's like walking through a fucking dungeon!"

Their conversation quickly came to a halt the moment they reached the piece of wall right next to the Great Hall doors. To their right, they could see the expanse of hallway that led to the front doors, but they knew there was absolutely no way to open those, magically sealed as they were.

Instead, Vicky activated her team radio again. "Vlad, this is Bolt. We've reached the Great Hall doors, over."

She waited a second before Vlad's response came back. "_This is Vlad. Looks like the enemy's attention is all on us, so you two shouldn't meet much resistance. It's—Jesus!_" the comm was suddenly drowned out by the sound of weapon fire, causing Vicky to feel her stomach drop. Had Vlad been killed?

She needn't have worried, however, as she soon came back on the comm. "_Sorry; some dirtbag felt the need to try and relieve me of my head. Anyway, you two go ahead with the operation and scout out the Great Hall for the VIP. Like I said, most of the enemy's attention is on us, so you should meet, at worst, minimal enemy resistance. Still, for safety's sake, use the fiberscope to make sure the coast is clear before attempting a breach—copy?"_

"Copy all, Vlad. Out," replied Vicky before nodding at Snap, who in turn proceeded to turn slightly and ruffled through her belt pouches for the aforementioned fiberscope.

In a few seconds, the two women had crouched next to the door frame and had unravelled the fiberscope. Vicky was crouching in front of the double doors, while Snap had the camera's transmission frequency linked to their visors.

After making sure that the camera worked, Snap gave Vicky a thumbs-up, which the other woman responded to by slowly sliding the fiberscope underneath the massive doors.

"I've got an image," Snap said suddenly, making Vicky stop sliding the cable immediately. "Looks like they've refitted the room into a throne room of sorts."

"_Big fucking surprise_," they heard Vlad say over the comm.

Snap paid the man no heed and motioned for Vicky to continue. "Two long tables on either side of the room, ominous looking chair I'm assuming is a throne at the very back. Looks to be deserted."

"Suggestions?" asked Vicky.

Snap was silent for a moment before answering. "Looks and is are two _very_ different things, especially when it comes to magic. I suggest we turn on the thermal view and make sure we're not about to get ambushed."

Vicky nodded. "Agreed. Switching on thermal vision."

Almost instantly, Snap's view of the room switched from normal to thermal vision—blue and green and brown replaced by yellows, reds, and blacks. "I'm not reading any apparent thermal activity. It really looks like the whole room is deserted."

"I guess we should move out, then?" suggested Vicky.

"Aye…alright, pull—wait."

Vicky had been about to pull out the cable entirely when Snap's retraction had come. "What? What is it?"

"I saw something. Movement at the very back of the room. Quick! Push the camera further in!" urged the Quebecker woman, which Vicky quickly complied with.

Snap was silent before giving a triumphant scoff.

"I _knew_ I'd seen something! Behind the throne, barely a meter to the left—there's someone sitting in an invisible bubble. Looks to be confined there, too."

Quickly, Vicky turned on her own camera feed and attentively observed the pictures coming through on her visor. Indeed—she had been about to dismiss the whole sight as insignificant thermal activity, until something in that precise area had moved and the thermal imaging had spiked.

"Agreed. Looks like we almost missed it due to the invisibility charms," said Vicky. "Reckon it's the VIP?"

"Seems as good a place as any to keep one, especially if one is a megalomaniacal tyrant who loves to toy with his prisoners," commented Snap.

"Odd that he'd be left unguarded, though," noted Vicky. "Too convenient."

Snap was of a different mind, however. "They never expected us to get in here, remember? Tank and Vlad must be driving the defenders _mad_, so they're not likely to think that there's _more_ of them running around the place."

Vicky nodded in reluctant agreement, unable to shake off the feeling that things were going too easy. Still, she pulled out the fiberscope, deactivated the feed to her visor, and handed over the coiled instrument to Snap, who quickly stashed it in one of her belt pouches.

"Standard breach. I'll go first, you cover."

"Explosives?"

"No. Don't need to attract attention, and if what you say is correct, there won't be anyone to kill once we open these doors."

Snap nodded in agreement and brought up her weapon to bear as she and Vicky lightly stepped towards the hanging doorknobs. Again, Vicky raised three fingers, causing Snap to nod once in acquiescence and her weapon to rise in readiness to cover for her superior.

Three fingers.

Two fingers.

One finger.

Vicky pushed against the door with all her might and burst into the room, quickly making for the cover of the left-hand side table. Behind her, Snap had started a little later and had her weapon held high, its muzzle sweeping left and right as she covered their dash for cover.

It was Snap's sudden halt that caught Vicky's attention.

Vicky had reached the table and had crouched down at the very end, ready to move again once Snap had reached her position. Thus, when her comrade had failed to appear after a few seconds—in fact, the sound of boots on stone had ceased entirely—Vicky had peeked out to see what the problem was.

Simply put, nothing was wrong.

Well, technically speaking, anyway.

All that Vicky could see was that Snap had stopped mid-run towards their designated position and was apparently staring down the room towards the throne they'd seen through the fiberscope. Most unlike her, Snap had dropped her weapon from its ready position to her side, loosely hanging in her grip.

"Snap!" Vicky called out through the comm. "Snap, what's wrong!?"

The woman from Quebec didn't respond. Instead, it seemed she kept staring at the throne, which Vicky couldn't understand. It hadn't looked like much through the fiberscope—what could have possibly caused her teammate to freeze up so suddenly?

Then, first imperceptibly and slowly more and more conspicuously, Snap raised her free arm and, shaking like a leaf, pointed at the throne.

Vicky turned her head and looked towards the barely illuminated area. "What? What is it, Snap?" she asked, before deciding that having her teammate out in the open like that just wasn't good for either of their health. Sprinting towards her, she made a grab for Snap's uniform, and it was then that it hit her.

She didn't know what it was, or what could possibly have emitted such a thing, but all of a sudden, it took her every ounce of willpower she had not to collapse onto her knees. It was as though an intense, _evil_ pressure had descended on her, and even breathing had become harder.

"W-What the hell is this?" she asked between gasps.

"D-Demon…" she heard Snap say over the comm, and Vicky was struck by just how utterly _terrified_ the otherwise confident woman sounded.

Indeed, Snap's body language had receded from ready soldier to frightened girl as she involuntarily took a step back and dropped her weapon as she brought her hands defensively against her chest. It looked odd on her, considering the full-body armour and helmet, but the message was clear—Snap was officially out of commission.

Vicky, for her part, was more worried than afraid of what she was feeling. She assumed that it was due to her extensive service record and the things she'd seen over said career. Nonetheless, this was like nothing she'd ever felt before, and that raised all sorts of alarms in her head.

Grimacing in exertion, she pulled herself to her full height and, with some trouble, brought up her assault rifle to bear as she gazed down towards the throne.

Truly, the fiberscope had done it no justice.

It was, she supposed, a work of artistic craftsmanship. Completely ebony in colour, it stood maybe 1.9 meters tall in total—far more than necessary in terms of back-height. What surprised her the most, however, was not the amazing craftsmanship, but rather the fact that, despite what her fiberscope had transmitted, it was very much occupied.

Occupied by a man who, even from where she stood, she could tell was incredibly handsome, if a bit gaunt. Dark hair loosely hung down his face, which seemed at rest, given the closed eyes. His robes were just as black as the throne, and it was in fact quite hard to discern where he ended and where the throne began. Yet, despite the very obvious fact that the person occupying the throne was resting, she immediately recognized that _he_ was the source of that overwhelming evil pressure. Given his presence on the throne, she didn't need to be a rocket scientist to rationalize exactly who he was.

"Oh, _fuck_ me," she whispered incredulously.

It would be so easy, she realized. So easy just to lift her gun, aim at the bastard's head, and end this war with one shot. He didn't even seem conscious. Besides, how many of her friends and family had died at the hands of this monster's former followers? How many of her former squad were probably dead on the battlefield outside because of him?

A whimper broke through her building anger, and she turned to see Snap still recoiling from the sight of the Dark Lord himself—probably as a result of the overpowering aura of sheer evil he was subconsciously emitting.

"Pull yourself together, Snap, he's asleep!" she hissed at her comrade. "Come on, we've got to get the VIP and then get the hell out of here before his Evilness wakes up!"

Snap shook her head violently—her instincts completely overriding her training—and Vicky immediately recognized that there was nothing for it; she would have to carry out the mission by herself from this point on. Growling, she picked up Snap's assault rifle and shoved it into her comrade's chest, forcing her to grab it in shock.

"Fine. Cover me, at least. If that son of a bitch wakes up, I want you to empty your entire magazine into his goddamn body, got it?" she told Snap, her tone brooking no argument.

Apparently, it worked, given Snap's stiff nod. Maybe the way she had spoken had ignited her trained instincts once again. Whatever the reason was, however, Snap was now holding her weapon up high, ready to carry out her orders at the slightest twitch from the slumbering Dark Lord.

Satisfied that she was now adequately covered, Vicky slowly made her way up the room by hugging the left-hand table, her weapon also trained on the Dark Lord's slumbering form. She quickly noticed the fact that as she approached the throne, the overpowering feeling of evil slowly intensified. By the time she had come within ten feet of the throne, she was sweating bullets, and her limbs were shaking more and more violently.

'_Shit!_' she thought. '_At this rate, getting to the VIP is going to be fucking impossible!'_

Trying to think through the overwhelming feeling, she thought up several scenarios of how best to proceed. Getting to the VIP proper by herself was just not going to happen, she now realized, so she needed an alternative route to the back of the room. Glancing towards the sides of the room, she was relieved to see that there were two doors that led out of the Great Hall, besides the double doors that they had gone in, that is. Glancing to her right, she also saw that the windows that looked outside could be used to breach into the room from outside, but she didn't know of any units that could do any such operation—all of them were either at the second gate or waiting in reserve behind said gate. None of them had rappelling gear, either, or even a way up onto the roof.

_Shit._

She activated her comm. "Vlad, this is Bolt, we may have a problem."

Her superior's response was immediate. "Vlad here, what's up, Bolt?"

"Snap and I are in the Great Hall—which, by the way, is now a throne room—and we think we might have the VIP…plus someone extra, over."

"Now's not the time to play hero, Bolt—just get the VIP and get back here ASAP."

Instinctively, Vicky shook her head. "Negative, sir—it's not a hostage. If I'm right, we've got ourselves a Code Tango Romeo, over," she corrected him, eyes still trained on the dormant figure of the Empire's current worst enemy.

Predictably, the comm line stayed silent for a good while before Vlad responded.

"Are you certain?" his tone was dead serious and fully professional.

Vicky gave the dormant figure a once-over. "Well, I've never seen him in my life, but he's sitting on the throne—asleep, mind you—and has a passing resemblance to the Duke of Halifax," she relayed, finding it somewhat surprising as well that Tom Riddle and the Duke had such physical similarities.

"That's him," confirmed Vlad. "Shit. This is bad. What's your status?"

"My status, sir, is that the sleeping bastard has both me _and_ Snap caught in some sort of overpowering field. I'm barely twenty feet away and it feels like the whole fucking sky is leaning on my back," she told him bluntly. "Snap's worse off—she's practically by the door and can't move forward."

"Sorry, Vlad," Snap's voice cut in then. The Quebecker woman truly sounded apologetic.

"It's alright, Snap. Bolt, how far are you from the VIP?"

Vicky did some quick math in her head. "Maybe thirty feet."

"Can you get to him?"

"Negative, sir. Any further and my guess is I'll be out like a light."

"_Fuck_," came Vlad's response. "Any other way towards the VIP?"

"That's the good news, sir. I've sighted two entryways at the very back of the room, to the sides. Looks to lead to the rest of the castle. Also, the high windows in this place could serve as breach entry points."

The comm went out again as Vlad undoubtedly thought things through.

"Bolt, that's a negative on the windows—don't have the manpower for it, or the equipment. Also, if my memory serves correctly, the left-hand door would mean coming into a corridor near where Tank and I are—which means…"

"…that it's probably infested with enemy troops. Copy that, sir."

"…right. Anyway, the right-hand door, I'm more familiar with. Unless Riddle's spent his time here remodelling the castle, it should lead to a staff room that's accessible via the right-hand corridor that leads to the Great Hall. Given the fact that every fucking enemy trooper this side of the second gate seems to be intent on overwhelming Tank and I, I think it should be pretty deserted. If it's not, use silencers and keep the overall noise to a minimum. Do not, I repeat, do _not_ engage Riddle."

"Sir, we could end this right now."

"Bolt, don't make me repeat myself—do _not_ engage Riddle. We have _no_ intel on what sort of protections he might have placed on himself, and I do _not_ need the entire castle alerted to your presence. Get the VIP and get back here; that's an order."

Vicky grit her teeth, but conceded the point. "Roger that; please confirm: you want us to flank the room and come in from behind?" she asked.

"Confirmed, Bolt. Good luck."

"Thanks," she stated simply before turning off her mike and turning to face Snap. With a raised hand, she made a circular sign followed by a movement towards the door. Snap nodded, but stayed where she was and kept her rifle trained on Riddle's form while Vicky made her way back to the doors.

The trip back was obviously a lot easier than the trip forward, and she was soon at Snap's side, tapping her teammate on the shoulder. Vicky expected her to move back with her, so she was surprised when her teammate did not do so, instead keeping her ready stance completely firm.

Vicky looked back at her teammate in confusion. "Snap?"

"We're just leaving him here like that?" she asked, clearly meaning Riddle. "Alive?" she elaborated.

Vicky understood where Snap was coming from, but she also knew that her orders had decided the situation for her. "We have orders, Snap. Don't do it."

"We could end this war, Bolt. Here, now."

Vicky patted her teammates shoulder. "Michelle," she said, breaking squad protocol for the sake of defusing this situation, "he could be protected by gods know what sort of enchantments, that bullet might not even kill him even if you hit him, _and_ we could alert every enemy unit in this damn castle to our presence,"

"We could still end it—you said so yourself to Vlad, Vicky," insisted Snap. "This…_monster_ is what caused all this—why our friends…our families…" she shook with an involuntary sob, which Vicky could empathize with.

Vicky's pat turned into a comforting squeeze.

"We can grieve properly later, Michelle," she said softly. "For now, let's get our target out of here and then we can focus on riddling that bastard's body full of holes."

"…Fine," Snap finally agreed, lowering her weapon. She took a tentative step back, following Vicky's lead, and then turned fully and followed her superior out of the room at a trot.

The two quickly made their way down the corridor to their left as they left the Great Hall, their boots softly clicking against the ground as they trotted their way to the hall's hard corner. Again pressed against the wall, they peered to over and quickly scouted out the hallway. Two guards, who seemed to be golems from the stiff and absolutely still posture. Thankfully, they were looking away from them.

Looking back at Snap, Vicky made a screwing motion with her free hand and smiled when her partner nodded and brought out the silencers from her pack. Quickly setting them on the rifle muzzles, the two women debated how best to take out the two guards.

"I take left, you take right?" asked Vicky.

"Sounds good to me, Bolt," came Snap's reply.

Vicky nodded. "On three, then."

The two tensed as they brought up their weapons, hugging the wall still, and slowly and quietly stepped out from behind cover, kneeled, and took aim. Through the voice communicator—and highly grateful that their helmets muffled out all internal sound—Vicky started the countdown. "Three…"

"Two…"

"One…"

Two zipping sounds rang out as their rifles bucked, and their two targets had their heads visibly explode from the hollow-point bullets.

"Targets down," Vicky said unnecessarily. "Moving on."

The two women trotted down the corridor, passing the two corpses without a glance and quickly making their way through the lighted corridor.

"Door to the left," Vicky pointed out. "Should be our target."

"Breach?" asked Snap.

"No. Shouldn't be any need. If it's locked, we shoot our way in."

"Roger that."

As luck would have it, the door _was_ unlocked, much to their relief. Vicky had her hand on the handle and Snap was covering her by sweeping their surroundings with her rifle.

"Ready?" asked Vicky.

"Yep—hit it."

Vicky jerked the handle down and pushed, clearing the way for them to get back into the Great Hall from the side. Instantly, the two felt the pressure of Riddle's presence hit them again, and it was all Snap could do not to collapse right there and then. Vicky noticed it immediately and, though she was also hard pressed to keep standing, it wasn't as bad as with Snap.

"You keep an eye on the hallway—I'll get the VIP," she stated imperiously.

"You sure?" asked Snap, who was breathing heavily.

"Yeah. I can handle this pressure better, and I should be fine if I keep hugging the wall."

"Alright. I've got your back."

Vicky smiled in her helmet. "Thanks."

Vicky, true to her word, took a step into the room and then smashed herself against the far wall, keeping as much of her frame as physically possible close to the wall so as to lessen the astronomical effects of Riddle's mere presence. It was absolutely _insane_ how much power that man radiated, even in his _sleep_.

Shuffling her way sideways, Vicky was reminded of a particular mission a couple of years back, when she and her fireteam from her former Company had been ordered to scout ahead of an offensive in the Rockies. She had been forced to sidle her way across a mountainside, with about maybe a foot wide of earth at her feet for grounding. Beyond that was a chasm that led to inevitable death. Of course, it wasn't exactly the same thing now, but the principle was the same, she supposed.

Vicky neared the place she knew the VIP to be and quickly shifted her visor view to thermal imaging. Instantly, her view of the room switched to a myriad of colours. Yet, clear as day, she could now see the figure of the VIP tied to the chair a few feet away from her. He—the vague musculature of the figure seemed to indicate a male person—was slumped over, and she assumed he was probably unconscious; undoubtedly as a result of the constant pressure radiating from Riddle.

"VIP is slumped over—seems to be unconscious at this time," she said into her mike.

"_Roger that, Bolt. That's not important. Just get him out of there any way you can."_

Vicky smirked at Vlad's order. It wasn't unusual for VIPs to sometimes get uncooperative, and while officers generally told their soldiers to go easy on their charges, there were times that soldiers wished they could just sock their charges one if they got uncooperative.

Slowly, she sidled up to the slumped figure, completely passing right through the invisibility field, and groped around for a clear grasp on the figure's clothing. Well, at least, she _hoped_ he was clothed. For all she knew, Riddle was a sick bastard who got off on seeing his enemies naked.

Finally, she managed to grab a hold of a cloth-like texture, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She _really_ didn't want to be carrying around a naked man—that was a privilege she reserved for the one-night stands she had every time she was off duty.

"I have a hold of the VIP," she announced over the comm, and she could hear Snap's immediate sigh of relief.

"Thank _god_," whispered the Quebecker member of the team.

"Cutting the restraints now," she continued, narrating as she acted. It had taken some semi-blind groping, but she had found the ropes that tied the figure to the chair and, with great care, she had then proceeded to cut them with her combat knife. "Restraints are off—proceeding to extracting VIP from the throne room."

"Can we kill Riddle _now_?" asked Snap with a slightly whiny tone.

Vicky could have sworn she heard a chuckle over the comm.

"_Negative, Snap. Riddle's being saved for His Grace. More of a beatdown, that way._"

Vlad's response at least got a giggle out of Snap, though it sounded a little subdued.

It took some effort, and for the most part Vicky had to carry the VIP, but they soon made it to the door, where Snap took one of the man's arms and slung it on the back of her neck.

She could practically feel the rise of her partner's eyebrow.

"I never thought our VIP would be a coffin-dodger," Snap remarked sardonically. "What is he? Ten _thousand_?"

"He could be fucking _Adam of Eden_, Snap, and I wouldn't care," growled Vicky. "Let's get this bastard out of here and get back in the proper fight, yeah?"

"_Copy that, Bolt. Make your way here as quick as possible and we'll cover our escape._"

Vicky gave a positive grunt into her mike in response to Vlad's order and with a nod of her head, she and Snap quickened their pace. Thanks to their physical conditioning, the old man's weight barely bogged them down as they got their speed up to a quick march. It wasn't long before they could hear the obnoxious sound of Tank's L2A1 machine gun. Vicky was personally surprised that their charge hadn't yet woken up due to the racket.

Before long, they had turned the corner and could now see their makeshift barricade, where Tank and Vlad were both doing their utmost best to turn the section of hallway beyond their blockade into hell on earth. Tank's frame was shaking ever so imperceptibly from the recoil of the large machine gun, but its steady rate of fire and catastrophic damage was shredding the waves of golems assaulting their position into pieces. Heck, Vicky could see the bodies of torn down golems littering the hallway to the point where the ground stone cobble work could not longer be seen. Absently, she wondered just how many ammunition belts had already been consumed by the large weapon.

"Vlad, we're on your six and moving up," she warned over the comm, hoping to avoid getting shot by their no-doubt tensed up comrades.

Predictably, she saw Vlad stop firing only to check the veracity of her words and then nodded at her before returning to his shooting. "Roger that, Bolt. Extract the VIP via the secret passage. We'll provide covering fire."

"Wilco, Vlad. What about you two?" she asked even as nodded to Snap and moved towards the hallway that led to said secret passage.

"Set up C4 charges in the tunnel and pass over the detonation command to me. When Tank and I get out, I'll blow the whole place sky-high."

"Wilco. Out."

Vicky, Snap, and their charge moved quickly down the side hallway that Tank and Vlad were both protecting with their barricade. Predictably, it seemed as though everything was quiet on this end, so she supposed that the enemy hadn't yet managed to dig their way through the debris caused by their hastily-performed demolitions work near the passage entrance. When they had first arrived, they had almost instantly been caught by a patrol and, though they killed them, the noise of their weaponry had alerted the rest of the castle garrison. Thus, in order to make the enemy's life a _lot_ harder, Vlad had ordered C4 on the castle walls and detonated them, thus causing a cave in the hallway and sealing that particular way to their exit.

It took them ten minutes this time to reach the passage opening—it had taken five to get to where they had set up the barricade initially—and by then, Vicky was getting sick and tired of hauling crippled old men. Fortunately, the exit was now in sight.

"Vlad, exit is in sight. Suggest you start getting ready to move out," she warned over the comm.

"_Copy that, Bolt. We'll get ready to close shop in five. Is that enough?"_

Vicky did some quick mental math and glanced at Snap, opening a private comm channel. "Snap, think you can carry the old man the rest of the way while I set up the charges?"

She saw her partner nod and smiled. She returned her comm frequency to the team's channel. "Affirmative, Vlad. See you in five."

Vicky and Snap dragged their charge into the tunnel's entrance and quickly made their way down towards the middle of the passage, where they stopped and Vicky helped Snap shift the old man's weakened frame onto her back. It took Snap dropping her sniper rifle and using its strap to tie the old man to her waist, but once they were done, Vicky gave her a thumbs up and a pat on the back. Without needing further prompting, the Quebecker of the group was off, jogging as best she could down the tunnel until she was out of sight after she made a sudden turn to the left.

Left to her own devices, Vicky quickly got to work, digging into her pack and setting up the charges all around the tunnel walls. Thankfully, she had been less heavily hit on her C4 reserves than the rest of the team, and so she had enough to line up three pieces of C4 next to each other on either side of the wall, as well as two more on the ceiling, which was thankfully barely taller than an average human being—which had initially made it difficult for Tank to move in without hunching down.

Immediately after she was done, she activated her comm. "Vlad, this is Bolt—goodbye package is ready, over."

She heard a chuckled through the radio. "_Roger that, Bolt. We're already on our way. Transmit activation command to my helmet, over._"

Without further prompting, she did exactly that. "Computer," she said imperiously. "Transmit C4 Detonation Code Alpha, Alpha, Echo, Niner, Five to Atmospheric Drop Shock Trooper Corporal Viktor Krum immediately."

She watched as a progress bar blinked into existence on her visor screen, a green box quickly filling itself up as the information was sent as per her orders. Within seconds, the command initiative had been sent, and a confirmation box had also blinked into existence. With a mere grunt, it disappeared and she, after grabbing Snap's precious sniper rifle, turned and waited for her remaining teammates to show up.

She needn't have waited long. Soon enough, the obnoxious sound of Tank's L2A1 assaulted her ears, and she could see Vlad barrelling down her way, only occasionally turning around to open fire on the enemy at his back, while Tank was basically walking backwards, his machine gun never once stopping its steady rate of fire.

"Got your codes, Bolt," said Vlad the moment he was basically right in front of her. "Get yourself out of here—Tank and I have this," he ordered.

Vicky nodded, glad to see her comrades at least alive, and turned to leave, her pace steady as she jogged her way down the tunnel system that led out of the castle and towards the cliff. Within seconds, Vlad came back online.

"_This is Vlad, we've set the charges to detonate in thirty seconds and are on our way. I say again, charges are set to blow._"

Vicky turned up the speed on her escape, now outright sprinting as she took harsh corners and made her way through the darkness—only capable of seeing where she was due to her helmet's inbuilt night-vision capabilities. When a glare first showed up on her visor, then steadily grew to blinding proportions, she knew she had reached the end, and quickly turned the night vision mode off.

Five seconds left, she realized as she went out the cavern that General Longbottom had used to rest his troops. She could hear the sound of massive gunfire and explosions already. She was up the stairs to get onto the cliff, however, when the ground shook mightily, and her grip on the ground slipped away, causing her to stumble. Unfortunately, the shaking was so bad that, before she knew it, she was already halfway over the edge.

"FUCK!" she screamed as she finally realized her predicament, her vision slowing down as she fell backwards, her arms outstretched to her front in a futile attempt to get a grip on something to prevent the fatal fall.

She had just about gone into a panic state of denial when she finally felt her body suddenly stop in its fall, causing her head to bob up and down and a sting of unbelievable pain race down her left arm, which was being pulled upwards.

"_Jesus Christ!_" she swore loudly, unknowingly activating the external microphone.

She heard a chuckle coming from above her. Looking up, she saw her forearm being gripped by a single, brown-gloved hand, stylish, black robes obscuring the rest of the figure's arm. She couldn't quite get a look at said person, either, considering the effects of the sunlight's glare on her vision.

"You alright?" she heard a female voice—which she assumed belonged to her rescuer.

"Oh, you know, just hanging out," Vicky couldn't help but snap off sarcastically. "A little help, please?"

She felt the person guffaw, given by the shake in her pained arm, before she then felt herself get pulled upwards. Having shaken off her near-miss, Vicky helped out by grabbing onto the side of the cliff and pushing herself up as well until she could get a grasp on the ground with her right hand. At that point, she felt the stranger's hand grab onto her back and pull upwards, quickening Vicky's rescue.

Almost as quickly as it had started, Vicky was now safe and sound, leaning against the side of the cliff path to the cavern she had escaped, and was breathing heavily. Her arm was probably dislocated, she realized, but that was better than outright dead. She looked up at her rescuer, who was indeed wearing black robes, although she could now make out the silver strands here and there and reddish colouration around the middle of her rescuer's leg area. The vambraces themselves were seemingly made out of silver—though Vicky knew better than to assume as such—and the belt that held everything together seemed to be made of gold—though, again, better not to assume as such. Besides these two pieces of equipment, however, only a shoulder guard on her rescuer's right shoulder seemed to offer any sort of armoured protection, which confused Vicky to no end. What was this person doing dressed like this in the middle of a freaking battlefield?!

"Thanks," she said regardless of her misgivings. It was appropriate—the woman _had_ saved her.

The robed figure seemed amused—at least, so Vicky gathered, given the fact that all she could see underneath the black and silver cowl was the woman's curved rosy lips.

"No problem, Corporal," said her rescuer. "I was in the neighbourhood, and I couldn't very well let an ally fall to their death, now could I?"

"Thanks anyway," Vicky repeated, only to have Vlad and Tank suddenly enter into her peripheral vision. "Hey boss, Tank."

Vlad's head suddenly turned towards her at her greeting, and she could just imagine the shocked look on his face past his impenetrable visor. "_Bolt_? What the hell are you doing _here_? Why aren't you with Snap?"

"Fell off the cliff," she said with a grimace; not that facial expressions were easily transmitted via the polarized visors.

"Fell off the _what_?" asked/yelled Tank.

Vicky nudged her head towards her rescuer, who had remained silent throughout the very short dialogue. "She saved me just as I was about to become intimate with Newton's law of gravity."

The woman smiled underneath her hood, bowing her head slightly in Vlad's direction. "It was nothing," she said graciously. "Though I had no idea you were involved in this operation, Viktor," she suddenly added.

"How—?" Vlad started to ask, before something seemed to click in his mind, for he quickly scrambled to take off his helmet, revealing his rugged, Slavic face. "Surely not! Lovely Guinevere?" he asked incredulously.

The woman flinched slightly, a small grimace on her face as he called her that. "You know I asked you to stop calling me that in 1994, Viktor," the woman complained.

Vlad's rugged face was suddenly—and strangely, in Vicky's opinion—lit up by a boyish smile as he dropped his combat helmet and rushed to hug the robed woman, who laughed as she returned the hug—albeit more gently.

"Guinevere?" Tank asked, confused. "Wait, you don't mean…?"

Just as Tank seemed to get hit by that realization, so did it cross Vicky's mind, and the veteran soldier raised her eyes to goggle at the robed figure.

"No _fucking_ way…" she breathed.

Vlad let go of the hug and instead turned so that he was beside the woman, smiling from ear to ear. "Lads, this here is Ginny Potter, the Duchess of Halifax herself!"

The woman—or Ginny, as the two soldiers had just found out—smiled graciously. "It is my honour to meet more of the Empire's brave soldiers," she said modestly, tipping her head in greeting.

The reactions to the Duchess' greeting was varied. Vlad laughed, Tank bowed from the waist until his body formed a perfect perpendicular angle, and Vicky scrambled to her feet so quickly that she slipped and fell right back on her buttocks.

All of it served to elicit an amused giggle from the Duchess, which seemed to set Vlad off for another round of boisterous laughing. That was surprising in itself—Vicky had never imagined that Vlad could ever laugh the way he was doing so now. He had always seemed so straight-laced and grim, with only glimmers of humour ever showing through the staunch, Slavic face.

The Duchess waved her hand dismissively at the squad's antics. "Now, now," she playfully chastised. "There's no need for all that pomp and ceremony on the battlefield. Whatever we are off the fields of war, here we are brothers and sisters, as my husband would say."

Vicky said nothing. To be fair, what could she possibly say that would measure up to the sort of conversation the Duchess was usually party to? This was the bloody Duchess of Halifax, for goodness' sake! Technically, the third or fourth most powerful person in the Empire, she was mythical in her own right as the Empire's silent blade; the Empire's fixer, so to speak.

In her thoughts, Vicky had missed the start of a conversation between Vlad and the Duchess.

"…so I stood guard here, waiting; as ordered," she explained with a smile from under her hood. "I hope you're not too offended about this, Viktor?"

Vlad was nodding. "Never, my dear!" he assured her. "I'm just surprised that they would take you away from your battlefield duties to play bodyguard."

The Duchess shrugged. "There's good reason to fear that some of Riddle's top lieutenants might try to interfere with the prisoner transport. Especially Narcissa Malfoy," she added for good measure.

Vlad looked confused. "Why especially her?" he asked. "To be honest, I was surprised to even see her name on our secondary objective list. Wasn't she that blonde haired ponce at Hogwarts' mother? The aristocratic one?"

The Duchess nodded. "That's the one," she confirmed. "Between you and me, I think Riddle's been experimenting on his human lieutenants," she added in a hushed whisper, though Vicky was barely able to hear it.

Vlad brought his head closer to the Duchess'. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly.

The Duchess turned her eyes towards Vicky, but the soldier's polarized visor prevented her from knowing that the soldier was staring right at her. The Duchess' glance lingered for a few seconds before it turned back to Vlad, apparently either satisfied that Vicky wasn't eavesdropping, or not caring.

"I fought Malfoy yesterday," she confided. "There's no way she learned to fight like that in the five months we spent massing our forces for this attack," she said seriously. "Not without magical or genetic tampering. Or both."

Vlad nodded. "Right. So if we see the lady Malfoy, we run like hell—is that it?" he asked semi-jocularly.

Vicky didn't know how, but she somehow knew that the Duchess' eyes had sharpened reprovingly. "Don't joke about this Viktor," she chastised. "Malfoy's as dangerous as they come. When _I_ fought her, we ended in a _draw_. Realistically speaking, she's as good as I am, perhaps a bit better."

Vicky heard Vlad whistle in amazement, and to be honest, she felt like doing the same. While the Duchess was by no means her husband's equal in terms of war reputation, she was still one of the Empire's finest warriors—much more lethal than she herself was or even her entire squad put together. To think that there was someone just as powerful, or perhaps even a little more powerful, on the enemy side made Vicky's stomach churn. As if their job wasn't hard enough with the enemy they currently had.

Meanwhile, Vlad and the Duchess seemed to be wrapping up their little reunion.

"Well, it's been fun, Viktor, but I'm afraid I have to go. Got to keep an eye on the old man, after all," said the Duchess with a smile.

Vlad smiled right back—which Vicky still found odd on his face. "I understand. We should get to our remaining teammate too," he agreed, turning to look at Vicky. "Where's Tank?"

Vicky shrugged. "Went ahead."

"And yourself?" he asked, with a raised eyebrow.

Vicky, unbeknownst to the two, rolled her eyes. "I just avoided death by gravity, sir. My legs refuse to move," she said sarcastically.

She saw Vlad roll his eyes, though the Duchess put up a hand to her mouth and turned away, her shoulders shaking slightly in laughter. Quickly, however, she managed to rally herself and put a gentle hand on Vlad's shoulder.

"It's alright, Viktor. Let her rest for a few minutes," the Duchess said with a smile. "After what you and your team pulled off, I dare say you all deserve a little rest."

Vlad sighed in defeat. "Fine, fine," he conceded, giving Vicky a stern look. "You've got five minutes, Bolt. After that, we're rallying at the extraction point, understood?"

Vicky nodded once, which Vlad returned. "Good. See you in five, then."

With that, Vlad and the Duchess turned and walked up the path towards the topside of the cliff, still chatting like long-lost friends. Left to her own devices, Vicky let her helmeted head fall against the earth behind her with a dull thud. Her close call had truly shaken her—that was no lie. That being said, however, she had already regained control of her limbs, but a sudden lethargy had prevented her from mustering up the energy she needed to get up and get back to work. She had felt ashamed of this, and so had opted to lie to her superior instead—a first in her military career.

Vicky had a good idea why her limbs had just suddenly decided not to work. Even if she could mentally reconcile herself with the idea that she had _nearly_ died—and quite possibly in the most humiliating way possible for a soldier—she knew that her body had not yet caught up with her mental processes. The fall had already caused her to lose her assault rifle, which left her with only a pistol to fight with, and she knew that it wouldn't do much good unless the enemy was well closer than she hoped they'd be. So, in a sense, her body was subconsciously reacting to her current feelings of total impotence. She was no good as a soldier, and thus her body's primal instincts of survival rejected her mental desire to go help her team.

All in all, a real problem.

Vicky grimaced. She had to get up, she knew, but her body was just not making things any simpler. Absently, she turned her head and considered using the earthen wall behind her to claw her way onto her feet, though that left the question of actual movement up the path. Would she end up clawing her way up the path?

It wasn't sudden, but rather gradual that she began to feel her legs responding to her commands again. Maybe her determination had crushed her primal instincts of flight and safety. Whatever the reason was, Vicky was glad to be fully in control of her own body once again. Slowly getting to her feet—she didn't want to risk another relapse—she simultaneously drew his government-issued pistol, a brand new model created by W&W ironically called the Pixie A735 due to its size. There was nothing cute about this pistol, however—it had about double the firepower of a long-barrelled magnum at about half the size.

Absently flicking off the safety, she trotted up the path, pistol held down as proper precaution dictated. Up on top of the cliff, she saw more of her fellow ADSTs gathered behind the gate, seemingly waiting for something. She soon found out, as a group of more ADSTs trotted down the stairs and some of those at the bottom went up to replace them. Apparently, Longbottom had established a rotational system, which impressed Vicky. Most people would just put all their troops on top of the gate and have them fire _en masse_.

The gate wasn't her problem, however, and so she jogged away from it, towards where she saw her team standing guard over the crumpled body of the VIP they'd retrieved from Hogwarts Castle, the Duchess leaning against a nearby tree, her arms and legs crossed as she waited for something to happen.

With the wards down, Vicky knew what that something was—the extraction shuttle. Not the same type as the ones that brought down troops, however—these particular shuttles were rectangular, Spartan in design, and were bulky enough to take several hits from enemy dragons and weaponry before they exploded. The reason they weren't mass produced for troop deployment was a simple matter of economics. Rich though the government was, they could seldom afford making the best of everything and just dumping it on their troops. That would just bankrupt the state in record time. Hell, the Airships themselves were a massive money sink.

Vlad was the first to notice her, and waved her over. Within seconds she was back with her team.

"Glad to see your legs decided to work again, Bolt," teased Snap.

Vicky would have glared at her friend if she knew Snap could see it through her visor. As it was, she couldn't, so Vicky didn't bother and went straight into sarcasm. "_You_ try falling off a cliff and having perfect motor control," she shot back.

Tank chuckled at Vicky's riposte while Snap snickered. Vlad was the only one seemingly unmoved, though the twitch at the corner of his lips seemed to indicate some amusement.

Vicky ignored all this, preferring to keep her mind on the mission. "Transport on its way?" she asked promptly.

Vlad nodded. "ETA five minutes," he relayed.

Vicky nodded back. "Any chance it'll be a bumpy ride?" she asked.

A smirk. "Maybe. The enemy's dragons have been in the air this entire time, duking it out with the flyboys. One more ship in the air might make for another target, or it may be inconsequential for them."

Vicky nodded. She didn't feel comfortable with going up into the midst of a pitched air battle, but she knew her duty was to stand by her team as guards to for the VIP, who only just now seemed to be regaining some colour.

"He's looking better," she noted, commenting on the same.

Snap nodded. "He must've been in the presence of that bastard Riddle for hours. At that distance, it's not surprising he's been knocked unconscious," she said flatly.

Vicky nodded in agreement, her eyes still taking in the sight of the unconscious VIP. She still couldn't believe that the man they had been sent out to get within the confines of the enemy headquarters was a coffin-dodger, though. Seriously, she had expected some middle-aged man, at worst, with confidential information of some kind. Instead, they got the last remaining survivor of the Victorian era. Not even the late Victorian era, either—more like the mid-Victorian era. Which, while it said something about magi longevity, also said a lot about how useful Vicky thought these post-centenarians would be.

A rumble in the distance caught Vicky's attention, causing her to lift her head to look up towards the sky. As Vlad had predicted, the transport shuttle for the prisoner extraction was coming in, and quite fast at that. Not so fast that she was alarmed by it, but enough to tell her that they were in a hurry to get out of the sky.

"They're in a hurry," noted Tank with some underlying concern.

"Air battle must be just as pitched as the one down here," replied Vlad, putting his helmet on as the shuttle began to touch ground. Immediately, his communicator went online. "Alright, ladies and gents, we are Oscar Mike! Go, go, go!" he ordered via the comm as the shuttle finally stopped its descent and opened the rear ramp. "Tank, you grab the VIP!"

"Roger that, Vlad!" With a grunt, Tank's large frame bent over and slung the old man over his shoulder, trotting towards the shuttle without much trouble. "Alright, I got him!"

Vlad nodded before turning to Snap and Vicky. "You two, rearguard. Once Tank and I are onboard, you get in, copy?"

Vicky and Snap nodded. "Copy that, Vlad. We'll be right behind you."

Vlad nodded again before turning and covering Tank as they moved towards the ramp. From the corner of her eyes, Vicky also saw that the Duchess had stopped leaning against the tree, instead favouring a completely still, standing pose, her head bowed. It kind of looked like she was in prayer, to be honest.

It didn't take long before Tank and Vlad were inside the shuttle and the word came for her and Snap to move into the ship as well. Tapping Snap on the shoulder, Vicky rose up from a kneeling position and started to walk backwards towards the ramp, her pistol still aimed to her front in case some enemy suddenly jumped out of nowhere and tried something. She sighed in relief when she felt her boot hit the metal ramp, and turned to quickly jog the remaining two meters into the hollow compartment where Tank, Vlad, and their VIP were. Seconds after, Snap followed, her rifle still pointed towards the outside of the ship, just in case. Once inside, she bumped her fist against the wall three times, her combat gloves banging against the metal loudly.

"All clear!" she reported for good measure.

"What about the Duchess?" asked Vicky as she turned to Vlad. As far as she could see, the Duchess was still outside, standing by the tree.

Vlad shook his head. "She'll join us once we've got a few feet between the ship and the ground," he told her. "Just in case some nasty surprise is waiting for us to get airborne."

Vicky accepted the explanation without protest, choosing to sit near the rear of the transport, in case the Duchess needed any help—not that she expected the woman to need any, given her superior abilities. Across from her, Snap had taken a seat as well, her assault rifle on her lap, her finger parallel to the trigger loop.

The subtle rumbling of the transport ship was all the indication that Vicky had that they were moving—well, that and the scenery outside, which was only visible to her due to the ramp being down. Out of curiosity, she stood from her seat, despite knowing full well that the ship was still in motion, hooked herself up to a safety line that held her to a rail overhead, and took a few steps towards the ramp, looking down as her view of the Duchess became slowly occluded by the ramp's presence.

"Hey, hey," warned Snap from her own seat. "don't get too close to the edge, Bolt. We're still in the middle of a warzone, remember?"

Bolt shrugged visibly. "Just taking a quick looksie," she reassured her teammate, who shook her head in mock exasperation and leaned back against the wall, trying to make herself comfortable—vain attempt though it was, considering the metallic bulkhead.

For her part, Vicky had leaned her frame over the ramp far enough that she could see the Duchess looking up at the transport with what seemed to be a smile under that black hood of hers. It was barely noticeable, but the loose strands of red hair that escaped her hood made for sufficient contrast for her to discern it.

It was gone as quickly as it she had seen it, however.

In a moment, the black-robed figure of the Duchess was violently tossed aside as a blur rocketed straight through her and, in a seemingly impossible feat of human muscular power, jumped up towards the already 20-meter high transport.

It took less than a split second for Vicky to realize that they were under attack. She quickly turned her head to warn her teammates and yelled, "CONTACT!"

Then darkness overtook her as she felt something metallic painfully pierce her chest armour and penetrate her skin.

* * *

Viktor Krum hadn't been one of the most famous Seekers in Quidditch history for nothing. Immediately after his teammate had sounded the alarm, he had turned, rifle ready, and had been about to fire off a few rounds when he saw his newest teammate crumple to the floor—kept on the transport only by virtue of the safety line she had attached herself to.

Instinct, drilled in by years of training, kicked in. "MAN DOWN!" he roared before firing off rounds at the dark figure that loomed over Bolt's still form.

To his utter amazement, the bullets stopped in mid air the moment the figure raised a hand in a halting fashion. With a snap, the bullets they fell to the ground, their momentum completely dissipated.

"Oh, _fuck_ me!" he hissed, loosening another round at their boarder. By now, Snap and Tank had also snapped out of their shock and simulated their section leader,

The hail of bullets seemed unstoppable to the three remaining members of the First Company section, but somehow, that meant nothing to their enemy. With another couple hand gestures, the same fate that Viktor's previous hail of bullets had suffered repeated itself on their new barrage.

And, just like that, Snap was on the ground, a pool of blood flowing from her pierced abdomen. Unlike Bolt, however, Snap did not give in to the darkness, and screamed for all she was worth as she writhed on the floor in pain.

"MICHELLE!" roared Tank in fury as he watched her fall to the ground. With a furious cry, he launched himself forward towards their assailant, completely blocking Viktor's sights as the team leader tried to launch another burst.

"Damnit, Tank, stop!" he shouted angrily. "Fuck!"

Indeed, just as Viktor had predicted would happen, Tank's large frame—about twice the size of their attacker—was casually smashed into the side of the transport, causing the whole ship to wobble in the air due to the force. Thankfully, none of Viktor's unconscious teammates were thrown out of the open back as a result.

Viktor was sweating bullets inside his helmet, whose visor was practically going crazy with red flashes as it announced, over and over again, that his teammates were being taken out. Even worse, he had a good idea of who this person was.

"Fancy seeing you all the way up here, Mrs. Malfoy," he said sarcastically, his rifle still held up high, despite knowing how useless it would be against the blonde former aristocrat.

He heard the figure scoff irritably. "I see that redheaded slut opened her gob," she said nastily as she slowly took a step forward, which was welcomed by a burst of bullets that she easily negated.

"She might have mentioned how incompetent you are," riposted Viktor, obviously riling her up now, as Ginny had never done any such thing. Trash-talking might not have been the wisest of his planned moves, but he figured he was screwed anyway, so…

In any case, it seemed like the jibe worked, seeing how Narcissa was now snarling underneath her red-lined onyx-coloured hood. It struck Viktor that both she and Ginny were wearing almost identical garments, but he didn't know whether that was on purpose or just coincidental. Regardless, what he _did_ know was that it heralded his death, if he didn't play his cards right.

Fortunately, the old man was safely tucked behind the seven-inch steel door behind him, in a holding cell between the pilots' cabin and the rear.

"I'm guessing you're here for the old man?" he asked a bit too casually, obviously trying to buy himself some time while he thought of a way out of this predicament.

Whatever the reason, Narcissa seemed willing to play along and shot him a nasty smirk. "That's right. He's the master's most precious guest, after all, and his hasty departure—without a single goodbye—was really downright _rude_."

Unfortunately, the haughty, if completely understandable statement was somewhat ruined in its genuineness by the _snikt_ sound of her two retractable blades shooting out from within her sleeves. Obviously, she had no intention of letting him go.

Making a split-second decision, Viktor threw his assault rifle at Narcissa and flicked his left wrist, causing a slender wooden instrument to shoot out into his awaiting hand—his wand.

Soldier of the Empire he was without a doubt; but before that he'd been an accomplished magus.

"_Sectumsempra!_" he cried out, instantly releasing a jet of magic that rushed towards Narcissa.

Only she wasn't there anymore.

Before Viktor had a chance to realize what had just happened, his vision was suddenly filled with crimson as a searing pain shot through his chest.

Thrown back by the impact of Narcissa's blades, he realizes only as he touched ground that the blonde woman had slashed him across the chest with both blades. For all intents and purposes, he was out of this fight.

"F…" he tried to speak, but the pain in his chest was too great. "_Fuck…_"

He heard Narcissa tsk from her standing position in front of his sitting body.

"Such a nasty little mouth," she reprimanded him sadistically. "Though I guess that's what happens when one renounces their honoured legacy in favour of that arrogant whore who sits on her gilded throne."

Viktor sneered up at Narcissa. "Big words for a woman who was too chicken to die with her husband," he said nastily before breaking into a hiss of pain as his injuries flared up.

The pain in his chest was compounded then by the fact that Narcissa stabbed down her two blades into his legs, a sadistic grin on her face as she leaned down to stare at Viktor's writhing, helmeted head, obviously guessing that, beneath the titanium frame, Viktor was probably screaming with all his might.

"Oh? Why so quiet?" she purred smilingly, her face centimetres away from Viktor's visor. "Weren't you saying something about me being a coward?" For emphasis, she twisted her blades slightly, causing Viktor's body to spasm in pain again.

She suddenly retracted her left blade and brought up her hand to mockingly caress the titanium-wrought helmet as though it were her lover's head. "Such a pity," she lamented in a mocking, girly voice. "All that ugly metal between me and your wonderful screams of agony…" She twisted her right blade in his leg and watched as Viktor went rigid from the pain coursing through him. "Such a waste of a fine wizard," she continued. "All that potential…wasted on a filthy little muggle sow. You could have been great under the regime, you know?"

"F…" Viktor tried to get out, his words crackling through the intercom amid the static noise that denoted his heavy breathing. "Fuck…you…_bitch_."

Narcissa laughed. "Such vim…such verve!" she complimented mockingly. "Is this the calibre of all of the so-called Empire's finest? Weren't you all supposed to be the most feared unit in the world?"

"No, that'd be me."

Just as painfully as it had been inserted, Viktor convulsed again as Narcissa's right-hand blade was torn out of his leg violently, practically severing it mid-way as it arced up to meet an incoming blow.

Viktor was pretty much on the edge of consciousness at this point, but he did know he heard the sound of metal hitting metal. His vision blurring up and dulling by the second, all Viktor could make out as the darkness overwhelmed him was that two black-robed figures were engaged in a sort of dance-like session in the middle of the boarded transport, which was still on its way up to the _Invincible._

And then, nothing; he was out like a light.


	46. Chapter XXXIX: Awakening

_AN: First chapter of 2010! Anyway, the end of the Narcissa v. Ginny fight!(?) and, setting the stage for the final few chapters, the awaited Awakening. As always, please review, and enjoy. - MB_

* * *

Previously…

_Viktor was pretty much on the edge of consciousness at this point, but he did know he heard the sound of metal hitting metal. His vision blurring up and dulling by the second, all Viktor could make out as the darkness overwhelmed him was that two black-robed figures were engaged in a sort of dance-like session in the middle of the boarded transport, which was still on its way up to the Invincible._

_And then, nothing; he was out like a light._

* * *

The fighting in the body-infested cargo hold of the Imperial transport had not stopped for a second since it started. Despite the apparent loss of five Imperial servicemen, neither combatant had stopped trying to kill the other—nor did the pilots deter from their ordered course up to the _Invincible_.

In what seemed to be a prime moment of _déjà vu_, the two women found themselves nose-to-nose as their retractable blades crossed in front of their chests.

"Still alive, I see," observed Ginny with a cocky smirk.

Narcissa scoffed. "As if I would get taken down by the likes of you!"

With some effort, the two women disengaged from their deadlock and spun on their heels as they took a step back, giving them each about ten feet between them to move around.

Ginny was worried. The cargo hold of the Imperial heavy transport was not the best place for this sort of confrontation, but with her back to the hatch, there was no way to make Narcissa, who was standing before the holding cells compartment hatch, to leave the transport. Fortunately, she also knew that Narcissa couldn't kill off the pilots or kill the old man, seeing as how the former were necessary for her to get back on the ground safely, and the latter was the retrieval target. That made things easier for her conscience, at the very least.

It was a pity that Viktor and his section had been involved in this mess, but Ginny supposed it was unavoidable, given the high-priority status of the old man. Someone was always going to get hurt.

"You know," she said as she started to circle around the room, trying to find a way to flank Narcissa, "I can't help but wonder how exactly you plan to get out of this mess…"

Narcissa smirked, following Ginny's circling pattern. "What do you mean?"

"Within minutes, we'll be reaching the _Invincible_, and I can guarantee you that the situation back here has been reported to the ship's bridge, so there's likely to be a non-too friendly welcoming committee waiting for you," Ginny reminded her, carefully observing Narcissa's reaction.

Narcissa scoffed again. "That just means I need to take care of this before we reach the ship," she said plainly.

'_Confidence, damn.'_ Ginny thought. Narcissa didn't seem the least bit worried about succeeding in her plan, which meant that she had a trump card on her that she didn't previously. That was dangerous stuff for assassins like Ginny. It easily could make the difference between life and death.

Then, suddenly, Narcissa jumped sideways, and Ginny quickly countered by jumping the opposite way. Narcissa, however, made no other move other than giving a triumphant smirk.

"You're not about to catch me with such a simplistic trick, _girl_," she said with a smirk. "Trying to get my back to the open back so you can throw me out? Please—an amateur move."

Ginny grinned. "Says a lot about what you think I think of you that you thought that's what I'd try," she taunted, somehow pulling off that interesting tongue twister of a sentence flawlessly. "Freudian slip, dear?"

Narcissa snarled at the implied insult—thus reaffirming that she didn't outright inherit the inbred genes of the Black family—and launched herself forward, her retractable blades glistening from the crimson, liquid blood they were drenched in. Ginny easily parried the blow, twisting out of the way as the metal from her own blades met with Narcissa's.

Narcissa was quick on the uptake, however, and quickly followed up every blow with another, twisting and turning on her heel as she tried to drive Ginny against a wall. Ginny was not about to fall for such a trick, however, and quickly took a momentary lapse between blows to throw herself sideways, landing in a roll and then turning to face Narcissa, who abruptly turned to face her, an ugly snarl on her otherwise remarkably beautiful and aristocratic features.

Despite her situation, Ginny couldn't help but take part in witty repartee. "You know," she said, bending backwards in order to dodge an incoming slash. "I can't help but feel jealous of how young you've managed to keep yourself looking, despite getting on in years. What's your secret? Some sort of cream?" she asked, again dodging a blow. "Maybe it's baby eating? After all, you do sort of strike me as the type of person who'd engage in cannibalism for the sake of superfluous beauty."

Narcissa let out something akin to a screech of pure exasperation as she launched blow after blow at the agile redhead, who kept dodging the blows with grace—and not a small amount of luck. With every blow, Narcissa was coming closer and closer to hitting her, and Ginny was painfully aware of that.

"Touch a nerve?" Ginny asked regardless, an unrepentant grin on her face. "Maybe it's simply make-up, then? Maybe underneath all that powder, and lipstick, and eyeliner there's only wrinkles and _old_."

Ginny ducked as a knife flew right where her head had been and imbedded itself in the metallic hull. In response, Ginny launched two right back at Narcissa, who deftly deflected them with her blades with relative ease.

"These fights of ours," continued Ginny, still grinning mutinously. "Really do get tediously repetitive, don't they? I stab, you stab. I throw, you throw," she dodged another blow. "I swear, if I started dancing the waltz, you'd probably jump right in—try to outdo me."

Narcissa sneered, momentarily stopping her unrelenting attacks. "Why would I need to outdo _you_, girl?"

Ginny raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "Joining the conversation at last, are we?" she asked sardonically. "And here I was wondering whether or not I'd have to talk for the both of us!" she then mock shivered. "That would've been awful, that would. My 'screechy, uptight aristocrat' voice can break glass, or so I'm told."

She tilted her head to the left just slightly, enough to allow two more knives to sail past her head harmlessly. She raised her raised eyebrow a little higher. "Seriously? We're back to that?"

She ducked sideways as three more sailed right through where she'd been. When she'd gotten a firm grip on the ground with the soles of her boots, Ginny looked up and smirked. "Dear Lord, woman! Where do you keep those stashed?"

"Don't you _ever_ shut up?!" screeched Narcissa.

It was the moment Ginny was waiting for.

Just as Narcissa had begun to open her mouth to let out her pent-up feelings of exasperation and hatred, Ginny's left arm had begun to lash out, so that when Narcissa had stopped speaking, her flattened out hand struck Narcissa in her exposed throat, while her right arm was already well on its way to deliver a punch to Narcissa's right-hand ribs just as the blonde was grabbing her own throat as she coughed like it was going out of style.

Ginny wasn't finished with the two blows, however. With Narcissa bending over from the blow to her ribs, Ginny took advantage of the move to spin on her heel, and in so doing bring up her right leg and knee her opponent in the chin, simultaneously giving Narcissa a concussion and smashing her head against the bulkhead. In a street fight, that would have been sufficient of a beatdown to convince Narcissa not to get up again, but Ginny knew better than to assume as such. Flicking her wrists, she felt the grooves of her vambraces' inner device click into motion as they shot out the two retractable blades that hid within her sleeves.

There was absolutely no hesitation in Ginny's execution. Without sparing Narcissa's form a wondering glance or thinking about the consequences of taking Narcissa's life, Ginny launched herself onto her foe and, in one smooth motion, stabbed both of her blades into Narcissa's chest. Then, for good measure, she withdrew her blades and, with a grunt, fell forward again as she stabbed into Narcissa's wide, pain-filled eyes.

By now, Ginny was breathing heavily, the adrenaline of her well-executed plan wearing off. What she had barely registered previously was painfully obvious now. Pretty much all of her front was covered in blood. Even under her hood, Ginny had specks of blood staining her porcelain skin. Running a glove against her cheek would be counterproductive in that respect as well.

There were more pressing concerns, however. Ginny turned to face the rest of the bulkhead. The downed members of Viktor's fireteam needed medical assistance ASAP.

On the other hand, first things first.

Ginny grabbed a hold of Narcissa's robes and dragged out towards the ramp. There, she gave her nemesis a final look before, with a shove of her boot, she threw the blonde aristocrat over the edge, her robes flapping madly in the wind as she fell down towards the battlefield. The threat being done with, Ginny blindly slammed her fist into the hatch activation button and, watching the back of the ship seal itself, then pressed the intercom activation button on the bulkhead.

"_This is McNab—what the hell happened back there?"_ rang the loudspeaker.

Ginny ignored the question. "This is Assassin Mistress Potter," she spoke clearly and concisely. "By the battlefield authority vested in me by the Assassin's College of the Imperial Intelligence Service, I am taking over the protection of this vessel from Corporal Krum. Please be aware that Corporal Krum and his fireteam are in critical condition and need medical assistance immediately," she reported. "I say again, ADST fireteam escort is down and in critical condition."

The response was immediate. "_Copy that, Mistress Potter. We are alerting the Invincible's docking bay to prepare for emergency landing. ETA ten minutes."_

Ginny nodded, though she held reservations as to whether the team would last that long. "Very well. Quick as possible, mister McNab."

Without bothering to wait for an answer, she walked away from the device, quickly heading over to where the newest member of Viktor's team—Victoria, she thought the woman was called—lay on the metallic floor, blood still flowing from her chest wound.

A quick check told Ginny volumes about both Victoria's prognosis and Narcissa's beliefs. For Victoria, it was sheer dumb luck on her part that Narcissa's blade had not nicked anything irreparable. That wasn't to say that she was out of the woods yet, however. Considering the rate she was losing blood at, she had maybe ten minutes before she became anaemic and then finally passed on from blood loss. That was a problem she could help with, however, and with the help of a torn fragment of her robe, she bandaged the wound as tightly as she could after having removed the chest plate.

In regards to Narcissa's beliefs, on the other hand, Ginny immediately understood that the woman had little to no regard whatsoever for non-magic folk. Had it been any of her own assassins, Ginny had no doubts that Victoria would have been killed with the first shot outright. Narcissa's blow, by contrast, was basically sloppy, in assassin terms. Clearly Narcissa had deemed the ADST squad as little better than pests and had thus dispatched them with the bare minimum effort. It was a rookie mistake that would have, had Narcissa been weaker, undoubtedly cost the woman her life, if any of the troopers had managed to retain consciousness.

The rest of the squad, however, was little better off than Victoria. A quick check of their wounds told Ginny that the other girl in the group would need critical care within minutes of their landing if she was to pull through; that the taller man would probably have nothing more than a concussion and a traumatized spine; and that Viktor needed some heavy duty surgery performed on him due to the shredded nature of his left leg. Hell, Ginny had some doubts as to whether the leg would be saveable at all.

A shake throughout the ship told her that the transport was going through some of the more violent areas of the aerial combat raging over Hogwarts. McNab soon confirmed this hypothesis via the intercom.

"_Mistress Potter, please buckle down—we're heading right through the bulk of the fighting now._"

Ginny didn't need telling twice. After securing the downed forms of the fireteam, she went to the nearest seat and quickly buckled up, her hands tightly grasping the arm rails next to her. It wasn't long before the whole ship was rocking every which way, the force of the explosions in midair pushing against the transport violently.

Even so—little by little—the transport ship continued its slow ascent towards the _Invincible_.

* * *

_Mid-air…_

Charlie pulled on the reins of his dragon mount as he desperately tried to swerve out of the way of an incoming Imperial transport—probably filled with wounded, he gathered. He and his Dragon Lancers had just been activated for combat a few minutes ago, and already he had lost two of his 100-strong airborne wing—no mean feat when it came to the Imperial Dragon Lancers of Harrisburg fame.

The only thing he was thankful for at this time was the fact that their mechanical communicators were working spectacularly—something they had not had during the Harrisburg siege. With a single, soft tap to the earpiece, he had activated a communication channel to the entire squadron.

"This is Lancer-One," he spoke concisely, so as to minimize confusion. "Split into sections on my mark!"

Charlie only absently acknowledged the chorus of assents that his people were sending back at him. Instead, he focused on the rapidly approaching airborne battleground beneath him. He wanted to time this perfectly, so as to minimize the chance of losing more of his people before they even got to fight. The first two had been the result of a tragic mid-air collision with two of the enemy's own dragons, who had been attempting to flank the Imperial fighters from above. While the flanking attack had possibly saved the lives of a few fighter pilots, it had still cost him two good Lancers.

As they approached the twenty meter mark from the midst of the fighting, Charlie raised a gloved hand and quickly brought down, signalling his flyers. "Mark!" he barked through the comm., just in case they hadn't seen the hand signal.

Like the veteran flyers they were, the large mesh of Dragon Lancers pulled out of the squadron formation and quickly broke into the much smaller teams of 2 that consisted of a flying section. Charlie's own wingmate was a familiar face: Caroline Foster, once the leader of his Wing's Drake Squadron. She had since promoted her own former 2iC to squadron leader, however, and had been handpicked by Charlie to become his wingmate—a task she both revelled in and excelled at.

"Foster, on me," he was brief with his order, focusing instead on pulling the reins of his dragon, Zeke, so that they would tail after two enemy dragons who were harassing a pair of Imperial fighters.

"_Roger that, boss,_" he heard through the earpiece, and he could just imagine the excited grin on the former ballet dancer's face.

The two Lancers expertly pulled in behind the enemy dragons, with Charlie's own Welsh Green leading the way, while Foster's crimson Norwegian Ridgeback followed closely behind. Letting go of the reins with his left hand, Charlie unclasped a silver-coloured cylindrical item from his belt and, with a flick, had it deploy into a two-meter long cross-spear. Knowing his wingmate, she had probably already had hers ready for combat since the wing split.

"I got the left one," he told her.

"_Copy that, boss. The right one's mine._"

Without a word being spoken, the two simultaneously broke their two-man formation and charged their respective prey, taking full advantage of their rear position to take the two enemy flyers by surprise. Charlie was practically surgical with his attack. As Zeke neared the enemy dragon, Charlie had him bite down on the other dragon's tail and pull, causing the surprised and pained beast to writhe a bit, though still move backwards. At that precise moment, as the dragon's handler was turning to see what had caused his mount to go berserk, Charlie struck out with his lance, skewering the golem through the head while Zeke used his claws to rip apart the other dragon's wings. Within seconds the enemy flyer and his mount were out of the fight, and Charlie was one kill closer to achieving Ace status.

Turning his head to see how Foster was doing, Charlie was unsurprised to see his fiery wingmate battling it out with the dragon's handler on the golem's own mount. She and her Ridgeback were well suited to each other in that sense—they both loved theatrics. That being said, they were also deadly opponents, and Foster wasted no time in slicing up the golem and then delivering a fatal stab to the back of the confused dragon's head. With a brief whistle, he saw her jump off the dead dragon and gracefully slide onto her own dragon, Ruby.

"_Two down, a crapload to go._" He heard her cheekily state over the comm.

Charlie nodded to her in agreement and lifted his spear to point the way. "Best not to waste daylight, then," he jibed back. To his suppressed delight, two such targets zoomed into view beneath him.

Of course, Foster being the more predatory of the two of them, she brought it up first.

"_Two more rabbits down under, boss!_"

Charlie grinned. American though Foster was, she was far more vicious than any of his British-born Lancers, and most of that were directed feelings of vengeance for her days in an internment camp. Regardless, the perennial American volunteer was a deadly ally to have, and Charlie relished in the opportunity to have her serve at his side.

He tapped his earpiece. "I've got the right one, you get the left one?" he asked.

"_Mixing it up a little, boss?_" came her coy reply.

Charlie grinned, and he felt Zeke rumble in anticipation. "Always. Ready?"

"_Always._"

"Let's get the show on the road, then. Dive, dive, dive!"

With a roar from Zeke, Charlie felt his stomach suddenly shoot up as his dragon plunged downwards, its reptilian head showing a vicious snarl as it lunged down at its prey. Next to them, Charlie could see Foster and Ruby in a similar position, the American woman holding her lance underneath her arm like a jousting knight.

His focus was violently redirected back to his target, however, when he was barely able to pull the reins in time to have Zeke swivel sideways, just barely avoiding a screaming Imperial fighter that was passing by, its tail on fire and the pilot inside very much dead, apparently.

"_BOSS!_"

Charlie was breathing heavily, only barely managing to realize that Foster had screamed for him.

"I-I'm fine! I'm fine!" he reassured her over the comm.

"_Don't scare me like that!_" she scolded him.

Charlie thought the reprimand a bit silly, to be honest. How could he have possibly engineered the whole situation as merely a way to rile her up? Not to mention, it was _partially_ her fault that he had almost become intimately acquainted with the blasted apart cockpit of an Imperial fighter. If only he hadn't been _looking_ at her, the whole situation might have been avoided.

Of course, that brought up all sorts of uncomfortable questions, so Charlie, being Charlie, instinctively crushed down all of them.

Instead, he focused all his energies on killing his designated target, a task that Foster seemed to have focused on well before he did, judging by how fast she was approaching her target. Charlie groaned out loud, and Zeke let out a disapproving rumbling. Foster's approach was far too open to counterattack, and the way she was so far ahead of him and Zeke made it certain that if the two enemy dragons made a sudden turn to strike at her, he wouldn't be there to help her for a couple of minutes—which, in the air, translated to a whole damn lot of time. From the growl coming from Zeke, Charlie also surmised that his dragon was similarly peeved with the way his crimson-coloured counterpart was acting.

Leaning down, Charlie patted the side of Zeke's jade-coloured neck and whispered into his ear. "I guess we're going to have to bail out the girls, aren't we, Zeke?"

The Welsh Green rumbled his approval, and with a mighty flap of its webbed wings, the two were bolting towards the impending battle between Foster and the two airborne golems was about to break out.

As Charlie had feared, their two new targets were not as easily caught off guard as the previous two, and when Ruby snapped her mighty jaws onto her designated dragon's tail, the other quickly turned back and attacked right back, catching Foster off guard.

"Here we go," he whispered into Zeke's ear as he bent down, his feet firmly planted against their saddle-pads in preparation for his admittedly insane stunt. "You help Ruby, I've got Foster's back."

Charlie didn't need an audible response from his dragon to know that the beast approved. Ruby, still struggling with her initial target, was fighting a losing battle, while Foster herself was also struggling to avoid getting killed by the golems' spellfire.

For this upcoming stunt, however, Charlie needed exact timing. If he started even a second too early, he would end up plummeting to his death—the same if he started too late. Thus, his eye on the ball, he waited for that exact moment before, with a grunt, launching himself forward, off of Zeke and towards Foster and her two assailants, his lance high in the air.

With a fierce battle cry, Charlie surprised his target as he fell down onto him, lance piercing the golem's neck and thus severing the head. Foster and the remaining golem also looked at him surprised as he pulled out the lance from the back of said golem's dragon—which was seconds away from having its neck ripped off by an infuriated Zeke. Since death was not in his immediate agenda, Charlie quickly evaded death by gravity by jumping lightly onto Ruby's back, landing right behind Foster, who barely avoided slashing him with her spear as she deflected away another spell.

"Boss?!" she shouted in surprise.

Charlie smirked, though his eyes remained on the remaining golem. "I've been doing this a lot longer than you have, Foster; remember that," he said calmly, before, with a snarl on his face, he spun on his foot and brought down his lance, smoothly slicing off the remaining golem's head.

With its handler dead, the remaining enemy dragon was at a loss as to how to proceed, and was made quick work by a vengeful Ruby and a smug Zeke, his jaws still dripping with the first dragon's blood. As the two dragons meted out their vengeance on the lone enemy dragon, Charlie quickly jumped into his own saddle, knowing full well that tamed though they were, dragons were jealous creatures about their riders.

Hovering in the sky, Charlie turned his head to see Foster's bowed in shame.

"_Sorry, boss_," she apologized. "_I was reckless._"

Charlie didn't answer her. Instead, he casually threw his lance in her direction, causing her to widen her eyes in surprise, only to feel it brush right past her ear and then, with a sickening sound, plunge itself into something behind her.

"You were careless, too," he said calmly, nudging his head in her direction. Zeke gave a similar reproachful grunt.

Foster turned her head to see an inanimate golem being pinned to his convulsing dragon, Charlie's lance deeply impaled into its back. The dragon—an onyx-coloured Ridgeback—was in spasms for a few more seconds before it tumbled down towards the ground.

"_Accio_," Charlie said simply, and the lance disengaged itself from the dragon's back and flew back to Charlie's awaiting hand. He glanced at the bloodied blade once before swinging it to his side and clearing most of the liquid from the lance, and then gave Foster a critical look. "_That's_ how it's done, Foster."

Foster grinned despite herself. "_You got it, boss._"

* * *

_HMAS Invincible…_

Ginny's stride towards the bridge was brisk and almost impatient, with ship personnel scurrying out of her way as she made her way down the metallic halls, barely giving any of them her attention. It wasn't that she meant any disrespect or that she saw them as beneath her—that was Narcissa's gig, after all—but she was anxious to check up on her husband. Word had it that he had fallen into a trance for the past day and a half, and no one had seen fit to tell her.

Slightly frustrated, she mashed the upwards button of the lift that led up to the bridge, quite possibly damaging the light bulb behind the plastic covering beyond repair. She waited for a few seconds, her foot tapping impatiently against the ground as the Roman numerals that denoted the ship levels changed one by one, quickly approaching her level.

Ginny was torn. On one hand, she felt hurt that Harry had once again left her out of his plans—if this was indeed part of the plan. Why did he not trust her? Why did he keep her at arm's length all the time? Why did he trust his generals and admirals more than her, his life partner, the mother of his one and only child? Had she somehow lost his trust? Had she unknowingly betrayed his confidence? The thoughts tormented her.

On the other hand, she brushed aside these concerns and focused solely on the fact that Harry loved her enough to trust her with some of his most important and dangerous assignments; that he loved her enough to marry her and, despite his absurd wealth and power, stayed with her; that, despite the fact that he pushed her away from some of his plans, _he_ chose _her_ for his most secret and dangerous military project.

Was she being obsessive? She certainly didn't think so. She just wanted validation, in the end. Validation that their love—a love that had emerged out of close friendship and a mutually traumatic experience—had not been a farce. Was that truly too much to ask?

The doors to the lift hissed open, and she was surprised to see Bill inside, who looked at her with equal surprise, and not a small amount of joy.

"Firefly!" he greeted her happily with a hug, pulling her into the lift. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Ginny smiled inside her oldest brother's embrace. He always made her smile with his nickname. "I came to see Harry, dummy," she replied.

Bill grinned as they broke apart the hug. "Ah, yes—our very own Sleeping Princess."

Ginny's smile turned into a frown. "You knew?" she asked, a little angrily.

Bill looked surprised. "You didn't?"

Ginny shook her head. "No, I didn't know!" she exclaimed frustrated, suddenly thankful that they were in the lift—where no one could hear them argue. "No one told me—_Harry_ didn't tell me!"

Bill raised an interested eyebrow. "Oh? Interesting," he noted, cupping his chin pensively. "Though not that surprising, in hindsight."

Ginny glared at her older brother, a comment away from hexing him. "What is that supposed to mean?" she hissed.

Bill raised his hands defensively. "Hey now, sis, I didn't mean anything by it, and you know it," he chided her gently, his sharp gaze softening as she relented from her aggressive stance. "Harry didn't tell anyone, sis. I personally found out when they asked me to check up on him after he wouldn't wake up on the bridge."

Ginny gave her brother a confused look. "Are you saying we were _all_ kept out of the loop?" she asked dubiously. "What was Harry _thinking_?"

Bill grinned ruefully. "I rather gather that he thought this up on the spot, to be completely honest. I fed the crew a story about him being meditating via chess plays, but I'm honestly not entirely sure _what_ he's actually doing," he finally admitted, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Ginny's complexion returned to worry and doubt. "What can you tell me?" she asked, pointedly aware that they were quickly arriving their destination.

"His heart rate is stable and we've been keeping him well fed via intravenous equipment, but what's most impressive is his mind, Gin," he told her. "Typically, it's consistently functioning at high levels, but the moment he went into this…trance of his, it's spiked constantly. It's like every neuron in his brain is functioning simultaneously—and the most amazing thing is, his brain hasn't overloaded from it, despite this going on for the whole time he's been out."

"Has anyone else besides the bridge crew seen him?" she asked demurely, leaning against the side of the lift.

Bill nodded. "Some of the Captains from the other ships have come to see him, just to confirm the rumours, as well as others from the top brass that are present," he told her honestly. He then lapsed into silence for a moment—long enough for Ginny to look at his face searchingly—before continuing. "I've also brought our parents and the…others to him."

Ginny goggled. "What?!" she exclaimed. "_Why?!_"

The elevator finally dinged on the bridge level icon's lighting, just as Bill was replying.

"His orders, prior to going into the trance," explained Bill as he walked out the lift, Ginny shortly behind. The two of them then made their way down the whitened hall towards the bridge door hatch. "Part of the IIS plan to crush the spirits of the remaining Order members, remember?"

Ginny looked sheepish. "Honestly, I'd forgotten," she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. "With all the insanity going on down on the ground, it completely slipped my mind that we'd brought them along for the ride."

Bill smiled conservatively. "Yes, well, they've been…a delight, really," he said evenly.

Ginny laughed. "That bad, huh?" she commiserated. "Let me guess—Ron hasn't stopped yelling since the whole thing started?"

Bill nodded. "He's been a right terror in the brig's mess hall. The supervisor hasn't stopped complaining about the amount of damage our dear brother has caused to his mess hall," he told her with a wry smile.

"I can only imagine," Ginny said, returning the wry smile with her own. The two of them then went silent as they stood before the door that led to the bridge proper.

Bill was silent only for a couple of seconds before turning his head to look at his sister. "Having second thoughts?" he asked.

Ginny hesitated. "It's…odd," she admitted. "I feel almost like it's the first time we went out for a date, to be honest."

Bill raised an eyebrow. "That was a decade ago," he noted. "He was still in school, as were you."

Ginny nodded. "I know…" she agreed. "But it somehow feels that way. I mean…with everything he's been doing behind our backs…it almost feels like we're just now getting to know him, isn't it?"

Bill shrugged. "Some might call it operational discretion," he told her plainly. He then reached into his coat pocket and took out one of his twin brothers' all new healthy cigarettes and lit up, breathing in the magical herbs' healing smoke. "After all," he said, teeth gritted from holding the cigarette long enough for him to put his packet back in his coat. "The more people he told, the more people that could either try to convince him otherwise or leak it."

Ginny glowered at him half-heartedly. "He couldn't have thought we would leak that information."

Bill shrugged, blowing out some of the excess smoke as he held his cigarette between two fingers. "Maybe he thought that we would try to discourage his plan, then," he suggested.

Ginny giggled, despite her previously gloomy mood. "Now _that_ is something I _would_ do, if the idea was insane enough," she admitted.

Bill grinned as he reached for his key card in his coat pocket. He held it up, cigarette back in his mouth. "Ready to meet your adorable husband, then?" he asked teasingly.

Ginny nodded. "Open the door, you prat," she said with a smile.

With a swipe of his key card, Bill activated the door's sliding mechanism, and the sight of the bridge almost immediately came into view, the room bustling with activity. It was a sort of organized chaos—an interesting contradiction in terms, though apt in describing the scenery before Bill and Ginny.

Ginny herself barely noticed, however. Her eyes were fixed on the command chair at the centre of the room, elevated above all the other workstations. Typically alone and austere in decoration, it was now surrounded by medical equipment, with tubes hanging down as they crowded the unseen figure sitting on the chair.

Almost unconsciously, she felt herself move forward, one step at a time, her gaze fixated on the back of the command chair. She barely noticed anything else, her gaze set in perfect tunnel vision. The din of the bridge's chaotic activity was no more than a dull buzzing sound to her as she approached the chair, a heavy dose of anxiety building up with every step she took closer to the chair.

Finally, she reached out to the chair and, with one hand on it, came around it and looked down at the sleeping face of her husband, still garbed in his distinct red uniform, the golden insignia of a shining star hanging from his neck—the symbol of an Imperial Knight of the Imperial Order of the Golden Dawn. He was one of the three only such members of this brand new chivalric order. The other two were, of course, Admiral Staples and General Sulu, the two other men who had helped with the restoration of the Imperial throne.

"He looks so peaceful," she commented out loud absently, her free hand caressing his cheek.

Bill, whom she hadn't noticed follow her to the chair, nodded from the other side of it, cigarette between his fingers.

"His whole body's at rest," he confirmed. "It's only his brain that's running at Mach bloody Seven."

"Will it hurt him?" she asked, her hand toying with his silk-like hair.

Bill shrugged, taking a drag. "Who's to say?" he answered honestly. "Never been a case like this before that I know of. But, since it's Harry, I'm going to place my bet on him coming out of his little coma the picture of bloody perfection."

Ginny frowned up at her brother. "Does Fleur let you talk like that around her?" she asked pointedly.

Bill smirked. "Of course not; which is why it's a good thing she's supervising the fine-tuning of our combat vehicles in the hangar and not here," he said shortly before blowing out some excess smoke.

Ginny smiled a bit before returning her loving attention to Harry. "I didn't see much when I came in; are the others here?" she asked calmly.

Bill nodded—not that she could see it, though. "They're practically being restrained by the guards at the right hand side of the bridge right now," he told her. "The moment you came in, it looked like Ron and mum were going to start a stampede."

Ginny made no move to acknowledge what he'd said, though Bill knew she'd heard him. This was confirmed with her following request.

"Let them come, but don't let them make a huge fuss," she told him. "My Harry needs his peace and quiet," she said, smiling lovingly at the unconscious form of her husband.

Bill gave her a look before turning his attention to the guarded people in question, nodding to the guards to let them go. Very slowly, the Imperial Marines did so, taking a step back and to the side in order to let the ex-Order members through their human cordon. As though understanding the terms of their conditional release, the group slowly made their way towards the command chair, either ignoring or silently acknowledging the dirty looks they were getting from the rest of the bridge crew as they passed by the work pits.

Once they were within arm's distance, Bill raised his hand and the group felt their feet suddenly stop moving. He gave them an easy, lop-sided smile by way of explanation.

"Sorry," he apologized with a completely unrepentant tone. "But that's as far as anyone's getting to the boss man."

Ron seemed about to protest, but Hermione quickly stilled her husband by grabbing onto his arm.

"Ron, _don't_," she hissed pleadingly.

Bill's smile widened. "Smart girl," he praised, before turning his head to the side to look at his sister, who was still caring for her comatose husband. "You wanted to see them, Firefly?"

Ginny paid him no heed for a moment, instead leaning down and kissing Harry on the forehead before straightening back up and facing the group. "I see you're all well," she said plainly. "Do you know why you're here?"

Deciding that she was probably one of the most level-headed people in the group, Frank nudged Hermione in the back to speak up. Glaring back at the older man, Hermione nonetheless complied.

"Bill told us," she confirmed. "The Empire wants us to abandon the idea of subversive activities against the state, and this battle is supposed to do that."

Ginny cocked her head to the side, a slightly impressed look on her face. "A good summation if I've ever heard one," she conceded. "But do you know how?"

"No," admitted Hermione. "To be honest, there's a few of us here who don't even know why we're here, to be honest," she added, looking back at Frank for a while. "I mean, Frank here was a principal backer of the dissolution of the Order, and yet he's still here."

Ginny smiled. "When the Service was collating the data on intended targets for—shall we call it re-education?—the parameters for said targets were pretty wide. As a result, the IIS decided that anyone who'd been part of the Order _and_ didn't currently perform some sort of job that established their integration into the Imperial community had to be re-educated," she explained, before shrugging and half-heartedly smiling. "Sorry."

From the look on Frank and Moody's faces, they were more or less understanding in their reactions to this piece of news, though they certainly did have a good deal of disgruntlement showing as well. Not that she blamed them.

Ginny then noticed a familiar face amongst the crowd. "Draco!" she greeted with a smile. "I see they picked you up as well."

The blond man nodded his head shortly in response, but made no other sign.

This didn't deter Ginny's smile, however. "I met your mother, you know," she informed him.

Draco's ears perked at this pronouncement, and a flicker of interest flashed in his sombre eyes. "Is she dead?" he asked bluntly.

Ginny shrugged. "Maybe. Last I saw her, she was on her way to make a crater into the ground," she told him. "I might have also stabbed her several times, so it's a good bet that she's well on her way to meet your father in the after-life."

Draco nodded sullenly, oddly enough making no overt show of grief at the news of his mother passing away. "Pity. I'll have to make arrangements, then," he said instead.

That seemed to set off a memory for Ginny, because she then moved her attention back to Hermione. "Oh yeah!" she exclaimed. "Viktor says hi, by the way."

Hermione's expression was blank. "Viktor?" she asked, before quickly making the connection. "As in, Viktor Krum?"

Ginny nodded, smiling easily. "He's part of the new troops that got sent down a couple of hours ago," she explained. "I saw him on the ground. Literally and figuratively, as it turns out," she added after a moment's contemplation.

While Ron seemed to fume with jealousy at the thought of his wife's former paramour, Hermione was more interested in Ginny's latest commentary.

"What do you mean, literally on the ground?" she asked carefully, a cold feeling coming down her spine.

Ginny sighed. "He and his team are _badly_ hurt. Narcissa took them down in seconds—didn't even give them a chance to react," she explained. "They're probably in the emergency operating rooms—all four of them."

Draco flinched at the information that it was his mother that had caused the mentioned damage. "Sorry," he muttered barely audibly.

Hermione, however, was showing pure horror on her face as her hands came up to cover her mouth in shock.

Ginny sighed once again. "Yeah, it wasn't a pretty sight," she said. "I daresay that transport's going to need a thorough cleaning to get all the blood out."

Ginny had to stop herself from grinning as she watched that last throwaway make her Order audience look a bit queasy. Sure, she wasn't feeling particularly hostile towards most of them, but she still took great pleasure in teasing them.

"Anyway," she continued, jabbing her thumb in the doorway's direction, "you can go visit him after you're done here. I'm sure he'd like to see some more familiar faces."

"When would that be?" asked Moody gruffly. "We've been told squat about how we're _supposed_ to swear off the old ways."

Ginny grinned. "Ah, yes. Your present, you mean."

That threw them for a loop. "Present?" asked Ron, somewhat confused—thereby speaking for the rest of the group quite accurately.

Just then, Bill put up his hand to his ear, before nodding and whispering a few words and then turning back to Ginny.

"He's awake," he stated simply.

Ginny nodded gratefully, her eyes still on the group, searching their faces for any changes in expression. "Thanks, Bill."

"Who's awake?" pressed Ron, deciding that he'd remained silent for damn well long enough. He was bursting with questions—and not a few insults towards his captors—and he was determined to find the answers he was looking for.

Ginny, however, needed no special prodding. With an almost excited and anticipatory smile, she merely said one word, which blew their minds. "Dumbledore."

Of course, this just ripped the lip right off of _that _particular can of worms. Despite the glares from the bridge crew, the ex-Order members had begun shouting out questions in rapid succession, both drowning each other out and disallowing Ginny a chance to answer anything.

It wasn't until Bill waved over the Imperial Marines—who proceeded to corral the wizards into a tight group—that order was restored, to the relief of Admiral Wolf, who gave Bill a grateful nod before resuming his hands-on captaincy of the _Invincible_.

Finally, it was Hermione who, once again took the first step forward in getting the answers to their questions. It was quite simple really; all she did was raise her hand like a schoolgirl asking a question. Ginny, of course, humoured her and nodded in her direction, which Hermione took as a prompt to speak.

"Why is Dumbledore here?" she asked. "No, more importantly, what did you mean when you said he was awake?" she clarified.

Ginny smiled at her, somewhat proudly. "That's the Hermione I know," she praised softly, a kind smile on her face. "Always with the right questions."

Bill rolled his eyes, keeping his attention focused on a mechanical tablet that one of the bridge crew had given him for inspection. He was furiously tapping away at its LCD screen with his fingers, merely muttering, "Yes, isn't she just a wonderful little bundle of inquisitiveness?"

Ginny shot her brother a reproachful look. "Be nice, Bill."

Bill made no sign of hearing her in response.

Instead of fighting _that_ lost battle, Ginny opted to answer Hermione's query instead. "What did you think Viktor and his people were doing on the ground?" she asked rhetorically. "Especially since we've air evacuated no one else due to the dangerous ground situation? Have a tea party and got sick of it?"

Ginny shook her head. "It's quite simple really. We had a suspicion about the cause of Riddle's seemingly spontaneous golem army, and we followed up on it. Turns out we were right."

"Dumbledore was forced into creating the golem army?" asked Ron.

Ginny cocked her head to the side pensively. "Not the way I'd have described it, but sure, let's go with that if it makes you sleep better at night," she allowed.

Bill snorted. "Bollocks," he said derisively. "No need to mollycoddle them, Gin. They're big kids enough to know the truth."

"What truth?" Hermione asked immediately, seizing on the opportunity.

Gin sighed. "That we don't think he was forced into doing anything," she said wearily, as if the whole situation was boring her out of her mind. "It is the Service's belief that Dumbledore willingly made contact with and then assisted Riddle shortly after the victory at Harrisburg."

As the Order group was digesting this fresh piece of information, she glanced over at Bill. "There, happy now?" she asked.

Bill shrugged. "The truth is the truth. Our time is too valuable trying to accommodate their irrelevant little feelings," he stated firmly. "In fact, if they're quite done here, now that we've told them, can you get them out of here? The Admiral is looking a little frustrated with their presence."

Ginny merely grinned at his intransigence. "Yeah, yeah," she waved off his concerns, before looking at the Marines. "Escort them out, if you please. If they want to see Dumbledore, take them to the recovery ward. Whoever wants to see Krum can inquire there as well."

The Marine sergeant in charge nodded briskly, saluting her with a stiff arm before barking out the relevant orders to his men. Without paying heed to the protestations of Molly and Percy Weasley, who were seemingly anxious to talk to their estranged family members as they hadn't been able to yet, the group was marched out of the bridge, leaving Ginny and Bill flanking Harry's command chair by themselves.

Bill broke the silence first. "When do you think Harry's going to wake up and end this silly business, then?" he asked. "Ballpark figure, that is."

Ginny smiled, looking out to the clear sky through the bridge's reinforced windows. "When he's ready."

* * *

Outside of the bridge, the Order members were all trudging amidst the heavily armed Imperial Marines towards the lift, when Hermione decided to broach a topic she'd been feeling bugged about. Turning to Malfoy, she shot him an inquisitive stare that he immediately picked up on.

"What is it, Granger?" he asked quietly, no reproach or evil feelings in his voice.

"You didn't seem particularly torn up hearing about your mother's death," she noted simply. "Not that I mean to pry, but…"

"You want to know why, yeah?" he finished for her, a weak smile on his face. "And yes, you did mean to pry. At least be honest about that."

Hermione had the sense to look sheepish. "Sorry."

Malfoy let out a soft chuckle. "I guess it _is_ weird, yeah? Not losing it when a parent dies, I mean," he conceded. "I guess I didn't feel much about it because, if _I'm_ being honest with myself—and that'd be a new development, mind you—I probably didn't know my parents at all."

Hermione simply looked even more curious now. "How do you figure?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I always thought it was all about family and honour, you know?" he told her. "That's how I was raised, anyway, at least until '94."

"When the Council of Death first showed itself," she said softly. The group then moved into the lift and Malfoy resumed their conversation, still speaking in low tones to avoid the others butting in.

"Yeah," Malfoy nodded in agreement. "Then, dad became all obsessed about gaining power. Mum was always behind him—she'd never considered _not_ supporting him, they loved each other so much—but it quickly became apparent that family was his number two priority then, even if it took me years to realize that."

Malfoy shivered. "The things he did; the things he showed off to me…I couldn't handle it anymore," he confessed. "That's when I began to have doubts about joining the Council's side. It wasn't about honour and family anymore—it wasn't even about blood, like they said. They used anything and anyone to achieve their ends, and while that's a remarkably Slytherin thing to do, it never seemed enough for them."

"They just kept wanting more and more, didn't they?" Hermione agreed, putting in her two cents.

Malfoy nodded. "It was hard," he admitted. "Watching dad become lost in the addiction to power. Oh, he never stopped loving his family—I'll never believe that—but he lost his way. He wasn't independent minded anymore. Whatever the Council said, he followed. He jumped from bandwagon to bandwagon as the Council's attitude swayed, and that told me the strength of his convictions. It was disappointing."

He took a deep, contemplative breath then. "It's so ironic, in hindsight. Because he backed the Council through thick and thin, my life became more luxurious with every passing day; and yet I couldn't stand it more and more with every new luxury. Eventually, it felt like the whole house was one big reminder of how much a sell-out my father had become, so I took a stand. I decided to make my own view; take stock, so to speak, of what I believed in."

He smiled sadly in her direction. "That's when I realized I didn't want to be like him—a slave to someone else's whims. So, I jumped ship, found you guys, and signed up. When he died, I felt nothing. Not because I didn't love him—I did and still do—but because that wasn't the man who'd raised me; just some shadow of his past self," he explained. "The same applies to mum. This isn't her. There's nothing subtle about her, nothing aristocratic, or caring, or nurturing. Her mind's not her own—it's Riddle's."

"My parents were dead the moment they lost themselves to the people they served," he concluded. "Those people who died on the battlefield later, wearing their faces, were empty shells—void of what had made them family long ago."

Hermione looked at the sulking ex-Slytherin with a shocked expression. She had never, in her _entire_ lifetime, imagined that Draco Malfoy, bane of all non-Slytherins _ever_, would become this insightful and this mature. This wasn't to say she was attracted to him—Diana help her!—but she felt herself bonding with the young man.

"I hate this war," she said, effectively summing up how the two felt.

"Amen," he agreed.

* * *

_Unknown Location…_

The young man in his chair was watching his counterpart with some interest. He had an idea in mind, and time was running out on his little entrapment plan.

"How about a wager?" he asked suddenly.

The taller, older man glared at him, still trying his best to tear the room apart, with little success. Everything he tried to smash or break would repair itself instantly, as if by magic.

"Explain," he answered spitefully.

The shorter man made no sign of being offended by the tone. Instead, he smiled easily. "A wager; a bet. An agreement made between two people on terms contingent to the outcome of a particular situation; a—"

The taller figure threw a book through his shorter counterpart, to no effect. "I know what a wager is, you pompous brat!" he snarled.

The shorter man laughed. "Right, right. Anyway, here's the deal: this little ploy of mine's about to end. Sad, really, I was getting comfortable with our little chat," he mockingly lamented. "So, in honour of our parting, I figured you'd be interested in making a little bet about how this battle's going to end."

The taller figure looked interested. "What are you proposing?" he asked silkily.

The shorter man grinned—he had him. "I'll bet you that, once we're out of here, it will take me three moves," he raised his left hand, lifting three fingers, "to force you into a confrontation with me."

"And those moves would be…?" asked the taller figure tentatively, wondering if he'd get an answer.

"Ah, ah, ah!" responded the shorter man, waving a finger in the negatory. "That would be telling."

The taller man snarled. "And what happens if you win or lose?" he then asked, still interested.

The shorter man steepled his fingers. "If I'm right, then there's no surprises when we fight. It's all-out from the very start," he explained. "If I'm wrong, then, by all means, keep anything you want in reserve and I'll fight with no surprises. Deal?"

The taller figure gave his counterpart a distrustful look. "How am I to trust you to keep your word?" he asked. "Not that I have any doubts that I shall end up victorious."

The shorter man had to keep himself from jumping about. This was what he was waiting for. "An Unbreakable Vow," he said shortly. "Agreed?"

The taller man scoffed. "With no third party? You're more incompetent than I gave you credit for!"

Now it was the shorter man's turn to scoff. "That's when we're in physical bodies, you ignorant berk," he shot back. "In here, it's all magic. What we have transcends a simple bond, you know. We are irrevocably linked by magic. If we want to make Unbreakable Vows in here, we could keep going until the cows come home and we wouldn't need a third party to activate them. Our magical bond will do it for us."

His counterpart seemed a little hesitant in accepting the explanation, but eventually relented, given that it was a solid argument, insofar as magic was concerned, anyway.

"Fine," he agreed, holding out his wand arm, as was customary with this particular ritual. "It's a wager."

The shorter man's smile had to be restrained before it turned feral and tipped off his counterpart to the hidden elements of his plan. Getting up from his chair, he stood face to face with his mortal enemy and, raising his own wand arm, grasped the man at the offered wrist, the older man doing the same to him.

"Do you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, called Voldemort, agree to the following terms of our wager: that if I succeed in forcing a confrontation between us in three tactical moves, you shall fight in said confrontation without any restrictions whatsoever, on penalty of losing your magic and your life?" asked the shorter man. "And that, if I should fail to elicit such a confrontation, I shall be bound to fight to my utmost, whereas you shall not, on penalty of my losing my magic and life?"

Voldemort stared at his younger counterpart searchingly, as if looking for any signs of a trap. There weren't any. "I will."

Thin, glowing lines entwined the hands of both men, wrapping themselves tightly around their combined wrists and hands. The older man then looked at his younger counterpart with severity and continued the ritual. "Do you, Harry James Potter, agree to the same?"

Without any hesitation, Harry nodded. "I will."

The lines around their hands glowed brighter. The two then, in unison, completed the ritual by speaking the same line.

"Our consent being given freely, we vow to uphold this arrangement, on pain of death."

With that, the lines glowed their brightest, then faded until they were seemingly absorbed into the hands of the two men, who quickly sprung apart.

Harry grinned at his archrival. "Oh, you are _so_ going down, Tom," he taunted confidently.

Voldemort was not one to lose his cool over so petty a taunt, however. "Delude yourself all you want, Potter. I will emerge triumphant in this battle."

As they exchanged their rather childish taunts, however, the two noticed that their feet were starting to get encompassed by a bright, white light, signalling the end of their entrapment. Indeed, the chains that had held back Voldemort snapped open and fell to the ground in a loud clank, causing the powerful wizard to cackle loudly.

"I'm free!" he rejoiced, laughing in a distinctly evil manner.

Harry didn't seem concerned, however. "Enjoy it while you can, Tom. I'll be looking forward to our fight," he said confidently, as the light began to engulf them up to their torsos, making its way up steadily.

Voldemort sneered. "Don't worry, Potter. I'll be waiting. Amidst the broken remains of your pathetic army, I'll be waiting."

With that, the light engulfed their entire bodies, and with a flash, the two men were gone.

* * *

_Invincible…_

The bridge was a scene of utter chaos now. Not the typical, ordered chaos of a military vessel's bridge on a normal day, however; real, utter chaos.

The lights that illuminated the room had switched their colour from incandescent white to strobing red, indicating the high state of alertness throughout the ship. The alert had been sounded by the magical monitor technicians, who had suddenly, and without any warning, mashed his fist into the alarm button, surprising everyone.

"What the hell is going on?" roared Admiral Wolf as he ran over to the technician in question.

"Massive magical spike, sir!" reported the worried technician as his computer screen went haywire with the readings it was being forced to project. "It's off the bloody scale!"

Leaning over the crewman's shoulder, Wolf inspected the monitor himself and quickly agreed with the man's assessment. "Shit!" he swore, turning to the shields technicians. "All shields to full power! Magical Shockwave Type Five on its way!" he roared. "Warn the other ships! All ships to put their shields to full! Recall all fighters!" he ordered in quick succession.

There was no hesitance amongst the crew. A Magical Shockwave Type 5 was one of the most powerful types of magical backlash in existence—enough that, without their shields, even the Airships, at 50,000 feet, would feel the blast hard enough to fry any and all electronic equipment. Fighters, on the other hand, wouldn't stand a chance in hell.

The situation was, therefore, quite desperate. And yet, in the room of utter chaos, three people were seemingly unaffected by the news. One was unconscious, but the other two were not, and they stood vigil by the unconscious one's chair.

"It's time," said Bill, only a tinge of nervousness in his voice. "I can't believe it's finally time."

Ginny, for her part, was all smiles. "First, the basilisk awakens," she said.

Almost prophetically, a cry of alarm burst from the crewman who'd reported the spike.

"Shockwave is imminent!"

"We've lost four squadrons!" cried the flight monitors.

"All shields at full!"

And then the blast hit.

Very little could actually rock an _Invincible_-class Airship, and yet there they were. The whole ship rocked as though someone had hit the ship with the force of an appropriately sized sledgehammer. The shields held—barely—and so the ship was saved, but that didn't mean they hadn't suffered loss.

Wolf was beside himself with anxiety and rage. "Status report!" he roared, getting up from where he'd taken a spill on the ground.

"We've lost communications with the _Chimera_, _Interceptor, _and the _Leopard_, sir!" reported one of the communications crewmen.

"Four and a half squadrons lost, sir!"

"Shields are barely holding at fifteen percent, sir!"

Wolf smashed his fist onto the surface of a console, though it did nothing to affect its functionality. He was beyond furious at this development. How had no one seen this coming? "What in the name of Hitler's wrinkled _balls_ was that?!"

"Voldemort," was Ginny's quick, simple response from her place at Harry's side. "He's awake."

That statement alone served to chill the crew's spines more than the prospect of facing a MS 5 again.

"More accurately," Bill intervened, "whatever was keeping him out of the fight and collapsed, resulting in the unleashing of a backlash of magical energy he was probably pouring against his constraints to be released."

Wolf paled. "He's powerful enough to unleash an MS Five by _himself_?" he asked, dreading the answer.

Ginny shook her head. "No. He's powerful, but not that powerful. My guess is that being in Hogwarts reinforced the amount of magic he was pouring into countering the constraints he was under. In a way, you could say Hogwarts served as an amplification dish."

That didn't really serve to ease Wolf's concerns, however. "What do you mean, amplification dish?" he asked angrily. "I just lost three ships to this bloody attack! Do you realize what this means?! He could use the damn castle to shoot us down one by one!"

Bill nodded. "A sound plan on his part, if he's thought of it," he agreed.

Ginny, however, was still not worried, as she felt something within her pump up her adrenaline. It was anticipation, she realized, as her magical core began to resonate.

"I wouldn't worry," she told everyone with a confident smile, her eyes falling to her sleeping husband. "Like I said before: _first_,the basilisk awakens…"

The bridge began to shake again, violently. Wolf and his crew, including Bill, were hard pressed to stay upright, though Ginny was immovable. Throughout the ship, the same scenes repeated themselves: men and women, Marines and technicians; captives and captors—everyone had to grab onto something to stay rooted to a spot, lest they harm themselves. In the docking bays, the dock workers had to run for cover as crates shifted dangerously about. Injuries were inevitable, given the violence of the ship's trembling. People had broken bones or sprained muscles as they fought to keep themselves upright, with little success.

* * *

Even the Queen, whose quarters were amongst the safest in the entire ship, was not unaffected. Sitting on a well grounded chair, she firmly grasped the ends of her chair arms and waited out the trembling, her own instinct telling her not to worry.

"…_Harry…_" she whispered the one word, blocking out the sight of her guards and attendants scrambling for cover and safety.

* * *

Yet, throughout this chaos, Ginny never moved her attention from Harry's sleeping form.

Thus, she watched as every feeding and monitoring line attached to his body was violently wrenched out of his body by some unseen force. Then, even more extraordinary, his closed eyes began to emit a silvery fume, and still Ginny made no show of surprise. She didn't have to. Her core was telling her everything was alright—that this was what Harry had been hiding all this time, and that she should just watch.

She leaned down until she was right above his forehead and smiled. "…And now the dragon awakens as well…" she finished her metaphor by kissing her husband lightly and lovingly on the forehead.

And then, Harry opened his eyes.


	47. Chapter XXXX: The Day It Rained Fire

_AN: Next chapter! Enjoy!_

_

* * *

Hogwarts Grounds…_

The effect of the Magical Shockwave Type 5 was not felt as harshly on the ground as it had been in the air. No one had been brought to their knees by the event, but they had all realized its significance when every piece of electronic equipment they possessed shorted out within seconds of each other. Once again, as it was before the Anti-Tech ward had been taken down, the Imperial Army was left with no way of communicating with each other. This presented itself as a big problem for the ground elements of the Imperial forces, seeing as how they were divided into two groups that now had to manoeuvre themselves independently of each other, completely incapable of coordinating with their counterparts.

The Second Gate was where the problem was most obvious. Unlike the elements under General Sulu, the Imperial forces at the Second Gate, under the command of Brigadier Neville Longbottom were vastly outnumbered by the golem forces, which, although they were slowing down their attacks, were nonetheless still a very real threat to their capture of the important strategic location. It was all they could do to hold on, in fact, as the waves of enemies kept falling on them.

But that wasn't their most pressing concern, oh no. Ironically enough, it was their own forces that were concerning them mostly.

More specifically, the fact that their ships were falling from the sky.

"_INCOMING!_"

Neville threw himself to the ground as another Imperial fighter jet came screaming down through the sky, barely missing the gate and instead ploughing right into the path that led up to the castle proper. To their luck, none of them had actually _hit_ the gate itself, or else they would be facing a massive breach in their already tenuous defences. They hadn't been as lucky with the casualties, though.

Ten of his people had died due to either getting their bodies crushed by the falling fighters, or the debris that followed the crash. The wounded numbered ten times that. Even worse, none of this took into account the amount they'd already lost to the fight to keep the Gate.

As it was, from about 3,000 initial defenders—reinforcements included—about 2,500 were left standing in any shape to fight.

Their enemy was maybe five times that number. Or more. He had no way of telling, really. To him, it was just one big, incredibly irritating mass.

"Any chutes?" he asked impassively as he got back up, just in time to see another fighter crash right in the middle of the aforementioned mass.

The ADST next to him nodded. "We've managed to get eyes on about fifty chutes within our lines, sir," she reported evenly, her helmet off since it wouldn't work without its electronic equipment. "About three dozen were sighted over General Sulu's lines, sir, but we also have reports of thirty or so dropping in the middle of the enemy forces."

Neville sighed. Those men would be killed on sight, he knew. There was no way to save them, unfortunately. He was at least grateful that the rest had fallen into friendly hands. He could always use more manpower to protect the gate, even if these flyboys were probably woefully unequipped to fight a land war.

"Any injured?" he asked, following up on the report.

The woman shrugged, her bob-cut hair bouncing slightly in the process. "About ten or so suffered burns when their equipment practically exploded on them. No fatalities though, thank god," she reported. "They should be ready for combat in an hour or so, at most."

Neville nodded. "Good, good." He glanced in the direction of the defenders on the ramparts to either side of him. Some of them had begun to slouch from exhaustion. "Send in the next rotation. Get these men out of here," he ordered.

The woman nodded in affirmation and then turned, cupping her hands around her mouth. "ROTATE!" she yelled out. "FOURTH GROUP, OFF THE RAMPARTS! FIFTH GROUP, GET YOUR ASSES UP HERE!"

Neville sighed. If only the communicators weren't fried, they wouldn't have to resort to _shouting_ their orders at each other. This way was just tiresome, in his opinion, and a bit of an assault on his ears, as well. Still, it was quite fortunate that the ADST had such powerful lungs, for everyone in range seemed to hear the order and immediately moved to comply.

"You should be a drill sergeant, corporal," he told her after she'd stopped shouting, unclasping his hands from his assaulted ears. "With such lungs, I doubt there'd be a single trooper dumb enough _not_ to obey orders."

The trooper gave him a dirty look. "I like being in the midst of it, sir," she retorted. "Drilling newbies is for the birds."

Neville had to bite his tongue to keep himself from telling her that, according to one figurative meaning of birds in that expression, _she_ was such a candidate. Instead, he opted to keep his attention on the defence of his gate. The fifth rotational group (out of a total of 5) had just got to their positions, allowing their predecessors to evacuate to the relative safety of the ground behind the magically reinforced stone walls.

He had to wince when he saw this group's first casualty—a slicing curse to the face. It wasn't a pretty way to go at all. The man's comrades, however, were quick to retaliate, as all 499 of those left alive opened fire on the mass of golems at the foot of the gate, mowing down their numbers considerably. Even as they tried to ram the gate with a variety of tools or spells, the unending stream of fire from the gate defenders ensured that the gate suffered minimal damage, and any attempts to scale the walls were quickly eradicated by concentrated firepower.

Neville particularly enjoyed watching the troops man the heavy machinegun emplacements. Without the need for pause, the heavy weapons tore through the enemy ranks as though they were tissue paper, killing them not through pinpoint accuracy but through sheer overwhelming damage.

Neville looked towards the south, where three pillars of smoke were rising from behind the valley's surrounding mountains. His rearguard had told him that they'd seen three Imperial Airships careening down towards the ground, which stung Neville deeply. Whatever had knocked out their communicators, he knew, was now also responsible for the deaths of the crews of all three of those ships. The only good side to that particular bit of news, he knew, was that the _entire_ fleet had not come crashing down—that would have been a cataclysmic disaster for the Imperial forces.

Neville suddenly felt tired. Nodding to the ADST he'd been keeping company, he made his way past her, giving only a single parting comment, "I'm going to catch some rest. Send for me if you need me."

He failed to see the ADST's nod, but that didn't bother him—he simply assumed it was given. Starting down the staircase that led to the ground, Neville observed the rest of the defenders, all of them resting, awaiting their turn to go to the ramparts.

Most of them had separated into their rotational groupings, but not all of them. Some chose to mingle here and there, thus keeping themselves always active. A few others had bunched up right against the walls and were taking naps, taking full advantage of the gate's shadow to keep themselves cooled off during the day.

Two days, Neville realized. Two days they had been keeping this gate under Imperial control, against overwhelming and impossible odds. Yet, still they stood; proud and strong. They had suffered their fair share of deaths—that much was true, but still the Union Jack flew from the ramparts, defiant in the face of a tide of nightmarish darkness.

And yet, there, amongst the resting men, was the testament to their sacrifice. Graves, lined up on the cliff facing the south, marked the final resting places of their fallen brethren. For the regular soldiers, their tombstones were their broken rifles, while the ADST set up the fallen soldier's rifle with his/her helmet on top. In the middle of this sombre reminder of the cost they had suffered for holding the gate, a tall, ADST battle standard flew—what they hoped would be a permanent reminder of those who gave their lives for Crown and Empire. Its motto was fitting, too, as a grave marker.

_Loyal Even In Death_.

Neville had wondered, at first, as to why soldiers would set up such a depressing sight within view of the place they were bound to defend with their lives. Someone outside the service would probably posit that it could only serve to deteriorate morale, but after some careful consideration and examination, Neville knew this was not so. Rather, the fact that the makeshift graveyard was in full view of the gate served to bolster morale, in a twisted way.

If nothing else, it served as a stark reminder of the consequences of defeat.

But for the more experienced soldiers, the grave was a source of indignant fury that they channelled into offensive skill against their opponents. Each and every person buried in their small cemetery was a fallen brother or sister, and for the ADST detachment of the First Legion especially, each fall was akin to an insult, which they all took personally.

Neville turned his eyes back towards the rampart, though just for a glance. It was seeing the ADST's in action that reminded him why they were always considered the best. They were stalwart, both the men and the women, and disciplined in a way that made everyone else pale in comparison. The First Legion lived and breathed combat, and their loyalty to the Crown was this side short of absolute fanaticism.

Hell, they had barely registered any shock when the electronics in all their equipment went dead. Instead of panicking, they simply pulled off the extraneous equipment and got right back to fighting, never once missing a beat. In comparison, Neville had to calm down almost every one of his subordinate officers, lest they lose control over their troops.

Neville shook his head, freeing himself from that line of thought. He hadn't come down from the wall to brood—he needed his rest, damn it all! Looking around, he found a nice, shaded area at the foot of the wall and, seeing no one else near said place, he walked over and plopped himself on the ground, adopting a sitting posture against the wall. He _would_ have laid down entirely, if it were not for the fact that he needed to be able to get on his feet quickly in case of emergency.

Not that it was possible to fully rest in this place, anyway. With the constant sound of explosions and gunfire, it was already a miracle _anyone_ could sleep in the vicinity of the gate.

Still, Neville had to make due, so, trying to empty his mind of all thought, he closed his eyes, shifted his back around in order to get as comfortable as possible, and slowly, but surely, fell asleep.

* * *

_HMIS Invincible…_

Harry's awakening had caused quite a stir.

Heck, even _that_ was an understatement.

The slumbering hero of the Empire had been given up as a lost cause by many of the higher brass present at the engagement. Thus, when he was reported to be awake, the _Invincible_'s communications crew was bombarded with audience requests from every other ship that was still in the air.

And yet, Harry had turned them all down, settling instead for a nice, passionate kiss from his wife; a change of clothing, as his uniform was now all wrinkled from having been slept in; and a wash and shave, considering that he'd gone without doing so for two days.

By the time he'd returned, the bridge had regained some sense of functionality as the crew was put back to work by Admiral Wolf, who refused to accept Harry's awakening as an excuse to stop doing one's job.

Thus, when Harry returned to the bridge, he was smiling pleasantly at Wolf, who was standing at attention and snapped off a salute the moment Harry had walked in.

"At ease, Admiral," he replied, saluting back. "Well done, getting the men back to work."

Wolf merely nodded stoically, instead moving on to more pressing concerns. "Sir, we lost three ships, _Vanguard_-class, when Riddle's awakening loosened that MS Type 5. Other ships are also dealing with damaged electronics," he reported. "They are asking for orders, sir."

Harry had only one ear focused on listening to Wolf, however. Most of his attention was held by his wife, whose chin he was lifting an infinitesimal amount with his left index finger. "Miss me much, darling?" he asked seductively, a sly smile on his face.

Ginny's own eyes sparkled. "Unbearably so," she replied immediately. "I'm glad you're fine, dear."

Wolf, so ignored by his superior, coughed loudly at the display of affection between the Duke and Duchess. Typically, he wouldn't interfere, but he had a fleet in chaos on his hands, and he'd lost all communication with ground forces—even if the occasional scouting fighter reported that they were still there.

Despite the cough, however, Harry never even turned to look at Wolf. Even so, he immediately fired off a few orders in response to Wolf's problems. "Admiral Wolf," he started, "please have the platform at the very front of the ship prepared for a magical ritual. Secondly," he continued, "once the ritual is done, open a communication channel using the encrypted frequency, to be connected to all personnel with the Black Operations tag attached to their dossiers. Lastly, inform the remainder of the Legion on board to prepare for deployment."

Wolf knew better than to question the Duke's orders, even if they seemingly ignored problems such as the lack of communications equipment, and so quickly relayed the orders to the appropriate communications crewmen. "Extract the ritual platform from the bow on my mark!" he ordered. "Shield officer, platform shielding status?"

The woman in charge nodded at him. "Ready to power up, sir."

Wolf nodded. "Extract the platform!" he barked. "Energize the platform environmental shielding!"

"Extracting platform, sir!"

"Platform environmental shielding activated, sir."

"Status report!" he demanded.

"Platform integrity at 99.9%, sir!" reported the hull diagnostics officer. "Environmental readings report wind speed has dropped down to ground-level, and oxygen levels are green."

Wolf nodded once, pleased with the report, before turning back to his superior, who was once again sitting in his command chair, albeit it very much awake this time around. "Preparations for the ritual platform have been completed, Your Grace," he reported dutifully. "Is there anything else you require immediately?"

Harry shook his head. "No, thank you, Admiral," replied Harry, smiling. With minimal effort, he pushed himself onto his feet and, offering his arm to his wife—which she took—turned to leave. "I shall prepare the necessary rituals for the completion of the next two orders, Admiral. Please be ready to transmit what I've said the moment the ritual is confirmed as having succeeded."

Wolf had a niggling question on his mind, however. "What about our ground forces, sir? They've been cut off from all communication," he stated. "Using our magical links would be highly inefficient—well, that and we sent most of them down to the surface with the ADST drops," he amended.

Harry smiled. "If the ritual goes right, then communications shouldn't be a problem, Admiral. The moment that communications normalize again, however, I _would_ like it if you would inform the ground commanders that we need their lines painted with infrared."

Wolf didn't even need to ask why. The implied order was crystal clear to him. Turning back to his duties, he set out to make the appropriate preparations for the order that he knew he was going to be given the moment the friendly lines on the ground were painted with infrared, just as Harry left the room without another word.

* * *

Harry's revival had a predictable effect on the ship's population. As he'd walked down the corridors towards the bow of the ship, he'd been nearly assaulted by more than a hundred people who, zealous in their faith of the Empire, had tried to touch him as though some sort of religious icon. Thankfully, with the help of his wife, Harry was able to keep them all at bay, his present mission too important in his mind to allow himself to greet every single one of his admirers individually.

He gave himself props for the act he'd put on in the bridge when he heard the communications were down and that three Imperial Airships had gone down. To be truthful, he hadn't expected that from Riddle, and that the Dark Lord had done so implied an ingenuity that troubled Harry. He still had faith in his plan, however. No amount of surprises would ever make him doubt _that_. However, if Riddle wasn't as pigheaded about adapting his own strategies to meet Harry's, then going from planned stage to stage could be potentially more costly than Harry had first envisioned.

Oh, the Dark Lord would fall—no doubt about that. It would just cost the Empire another thousand or so lives, was the problem. It wasn't like the tally was low as it was, either—he guessed they'd lost about as much, if not more, than the Russians had in both World Wars _combined_ as a result of the Dark War. So far, the consequences of such losses had been mitigated partly thanks to what amounted to a propaganda blitz of global proportions, and partly to the blind thirst for vengeance that the British people across the globe were feeling. However, that didn't mean he was about to throw millions to their deaths blindly. That wasn't part of the grand plan.

Nonetheless, morale demanded that he keep up his act of absolute confidence and cool demeanour. It was only after Ginny and he had entered a deserted hallway—in fact, the last one before the exit hatch to where the platform was—that he allowed himself to relax a little, letting out a sigh that instantly told his wife something was wrong.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked quietly, knowing that pushing him to tell her immediately would just backlash against her. She had been together with him long enough for _that_ to be common sense.

"Riddle's smarter than I gave him credit for," he admitted, his free arm rising to cup his chin pensively. "I hadn't thought of using the castle as a magical amplifier, but apparently he did. Wolf is right to be afraid—if Voldemort got the kinks in the process straightened out, the castle itself would become a fearsome weapon."

Ginny cast him a worried look. "Shouldn't we storm the castle, then?" she asked. "Neville and his men are at the second gate, you know. They could probably take the castle."

"But not Riddle," Harry countered. "Riddle is too powerful. He would likely rip the attacking force to shreds."

"Why hasn't he, then?" she asked bluntly, stepping into his path to prevent him from avoiding her question. "He's _right there_. He could easily get out of the castle and retake the second gate. Why hasn't he yet, despite being awake?"

Harry frowned at his wife. "It's not so simple, love," he protested. "Since we got the old man out of there, Riddle needs to stay put in order to keep his precious golem army on the move. Even so, his connection to them is probably tenuous at best, considering he's not the Transfiguration master that Dumbledore is," he reminded her. "If he abandoned the connection outright to fight Neville's lads…"

"And lasses," interjected Ginny with a playful glare.

Harry nodded, giving his own smirk. "…and lasses," he amended, "then there would be no obstacle for Sulu's army to overcome in order to reach the castle."

Ginny still didn't look confident. "What about his…you know?" she asked, and he did indeed know. "Why not use them instead of the golems? That way, he wouldn't have to stay put."

Harry shook his head. "That would require time. The ritual he would need to perform would prevent him from controlling the golems, and if the Imperial Army is able to cross the fields of Hogwarts undeterred, then the combined strength of Sulu and Neville's forces would undoubtedly overcome the castle's immediate defences, leaving him open."

Ginny looked at her husband's face searchingly. "Do you know of a way to counter his plan?" she asked hesitantly. She didn't want to be one of those people who assumed Harry had a solution to everything, but seeing as how he was the puppet master of this whole campaign, she needed to be sure.

Harry gave her a slow nod. "I believe so. Part of it is what I'm about to do. The other part of it comes in three stages," he told her in a rare show of open frankness. "I'll need your help with the third part, though. Up to it?"

Ginny's face could have literally glowed with the happiness she was exhibiting at being so openly included into her husband's plans. It had been the first such time that he'd personally come out and said that he needed her help. Usually, it had been more of a command than a request, and so this instance basically made her entire day.

"Of course, love," she agreed without hesitation, any previous feelings of abandonment utterly gone now. "Anything."

Harry smiled, kissing her lightly on the lips as a show of thanks. "Thanks, Gin," he said honestly, before walking around her towards the hatch. "Time for the ritual. Fancy a look?" he offered, his hand on the hatch activation switch.

Ginny smiled back at him. "Always."

Harry smiled in return, activating the hatch release. With a hiss, the thick hull plating in front of him made a loud thudding sound as it was released from its locks and then pulled sideways into the hull, leaving the way open towards the outdoors.

Remarkably, there was no sudden rush of wind, despite the ship's altitude. This was not because there _wasn't_ any, but rather because of the environmental shielding that Wolf had enacted the moment the platform had been extracted from within the ship. It basically created a self-contained environment within the platform that protected anyone on it from the hostile elements of the upper troposphere.

Harry's stride towards the centre of the circular platform was unerring and confident. He knew exactly what he was doing. Ginny's was less so, unsure as she was of what exactly Harry was planning to do. As such, she stayed by the hatch's frame, looking out at her husband's form as he went to the exact middle of the platform and then sat down into a lotus position.

Harry only gave her a single warning before he began, falling into silence immediately thereafter.

"Watch."

Almost as soon as he'd spoken the word, the sky seemed to fall into pitch black, despite the fact that it'd been sunny not two seconds ago. Ginny watched in awe as the platform, too, began to experience changes. Around where Harry had sat, a thin line of bluish energy raced around him, forming two perfect concentric circle around his position; one immediately around him, the other about a foot away from the first. The second circle wasn't done, however, as a line of that same energy raced away from where it had completed its circular form and began to design new symbols around it.

A crude, wing-shape here. Two connected circles there. Crosses interspersed here and there.

The symbology was lost on Ginny, of course. She had never, in all her years, both as a witch and as an Imperial agent, ever seen anything quite like the symbols that Harry—or, at least, she _assumed_ it was Harry that was doing this—was creating.

The blue energy only finished its drawings when it finally created and completed a final, large circle that encompassed everything else it had drawn. The resulting art was quite beautiful, if nonsensical to Ginny, though she suspected that the drawings were more than just irrelevant doodles. She could _sense_ the power that they were emitting, and it was impressive indeed.

Her attention was taken, however, by the fact that Harry had begun to speak, still in his lotus position. It wasn't any language she had ever heard of, however. It was full of hisses and growls, all of which served to make her believe that the magic being summoned was ancient indeed. It wasn't hurried, or violent. Instead, it sounded seductive, and commanding.

In fact, it was as though the blue lines of energy were responding to his every word, their luminescence growing with every syllable, until they lit up the environment against the pitch black that had miraculously descended on the platform. And then, Harry began to speak in English once more.

"…The Maker wills it, and it is done," he incanted. "From blackness, light. From death, life. As with the grass and the trees, the ant and man, the sea and the mountains, let Creation mould its vast powers and make humanity's creations whole again."

"Metal and lightning," he continued, the luminescence of the lines settled at a comfortable glow. "Hammer and fire. Let that which these tools and sources combined to create be made whole again. Let the work of Man return to its former glory, and let the tools we use to face our foes be restored such that we may deliver victory unto our Enemy."

He then lifted his head slightly, his closed eyes facing the black sky. "May the Maker's will be done, and may my request be fulfilled. May Creation spin its powers in our favour, and may Man's destiny be achieved."

Ginny blinked as Harry ended his incantation, his head lowering down to his chest, the light of the energy lines not making any changes. She had somewhat expected them to glow brighter until the magic was finally released, but no such event had happened. Instead, the glow seemed to dim little by little, until it was barely noticeable at all. Just when she'd believed the ritual to be a failure, however, Harry's head snapped back up and his eyes shot wide open, replaced by blue fire of the same colour as the energy lines. When he next opened his mouth to speak, however, Ginny could barely recognize his voice.

"_Thisssss…we…asssssk…_" he practically hissed, his voice hoarse and venomous.

And then, the glow did become brighter, all at once, almost blinding Ginny with its rapidity and intensity. She was forced to look away, her arms up to protect her failing sight as the glow pushed back at the darkness until it was no longer there. Then, just as she thought she could see no more, she felt it. A blast of magic unlike anything she had ever experienced before, washing through her like a furious tidal wave. So intense was it that she fell to the ground, spilling backwards from the blow, her eyes barely squinting through the light. She could hardly see anything happening on the platform, but what little she could told her that her husband was no longer sitting. He was _floating_.

Floating about a foot off the platform, in fact. His arms were limp at his side, his whole body acting as though it was being pulled up by some invisible hand. It was, to Ginny, a rather unnerving sight.

"HARRY!" she yelled, but found she could barely hear herself. Whatever the ritual had done, it had effectively drowned her out.

And yet, it apparently set something off, because the glow then almost immediately disappeared, as did the strange blackness around the platform. Instead, the day's actual weather was now visible, as was the sun. Harry was no longer floating, either—he was on the ground, apparently breathing heavily.

"God _damnit_ I hate these types of spells," he said weakly in between heavy breaths. "Always kick the wind right out of you."

Ginny's jaw had dropped about an inch from the magical spectacle, but was quick to recover as she sped to her husband's side and slid into a kneel beside his prone figure. "Are you alright?" she asked worriedly.

Harry smirked at her. "I'll be fine. It's mostly fatigue," he assuaged her. "Should be right as rain in half an hour, maybe," he said with a chuckle. "By the way, be a love, yeah? Get Wolf on the intercom and tell him to proceed with the second stage."

Ginny looked unsure; she didn't want to leave him lying there on the platform by himself—not if he was injured and he was just telling her he was fine to prevent her from worrying. Harry, however, knew her well enough to predict this line of thinking, which he responded to by giving her a comforting smile.

"Ah, my love, trust me," he told her with a playful smile. "I'm not lying to you about this, dear. Please, get Wolf to follow the plan. It's important."

Finally deciding that Harry was probably going to be alright, she quickly walked back into the ship and sought out the nearest intercom. Pressing the activation button with her thumb, she spoke into the speaker with a clear and audible tone.

"Assassin Mistress Ginevra Molly Weasly-Potter, Personal Serial Seven-Seven-Five-Charlie-Bravo, attempting to contact the bridge."

A small bulb on the intercom flashed green as her code and identification was processed successfully, and she heard the telltale click of the connection going through.

"_Bridge control. How may we be of assistance, Mistress Potter?_"

Ginny went straight to it. "My husband reports that the ritual should have been a success and is asking that the Admiral proceed with the plan, over," she dutifully reported, glancing out towards the platform, where Harry was just now getting back up. "He says that it's imperative that the plan proceed immediately," she added for effect.

"…_Roger that, Mistress Potter. Admiral Wolf has acknowledged receipt of instructions. Out._"

Ginny let go of the intercom's activation button and turned to see her husband enter the ship once more, pressing the hatch's activation button as he came in. Ignoring the sliding mechanism that would hermetically seal the ship once again, he instead gave his wife an inquisitive look.

"Did Wolf get the message?" he asked.

She nodded. "He should be activating the plan right about now," she informed him.

Harry gave her a sinister smile. "Good. Then we need to get to the bridge ASAP."

Ginny gave no response, instead falling into pace behind him as he led the way back to the bridge, a much more confident stride in his step now that his plan was well under way.

* * *

_Hogwarts Grounds…_

"_I say again,_" the transmitters were patching through, "_His Grace has awoken and restored all electronic devices. The Imperial fleet is advancing into position—evacuate any and all personnel from target areas. Bombardment commences in ten minutes._"

Sulu had been stunned dumb when the transmission came through the radios. Most of his troops had thrown them away the moment the shockwave had rendered them useless, but he had kept one near him, mostly due to the fact that he couldn't be bothered to have someone remove it when he and his men were fighting to keep the Imperial lines secure.

If the transmission was genuine, however, then he needed to get his lead elements into the trenches immediately, lest the bombardment consume them as well. Since most of them would not have radios, Sulu settled for another method of signalling them to fall back.

He quickly turned to his closest aide and pointed at him. "Stevenson!" he barked. "Send up a red flare! Have the lead elements fall back to the furthest trenches we have and _stay_ there!"

The adjutant, knowing full well why the order was given, wasted no time in speeding off to carry out the order. They had all see what the Basilisk gun was capable of, having one of their own already set up behind their lines, but they had never actually seen a full aerial bombardment by the Imperial Airfleet, and those Airships were _crammed_ with Basilisk guns.

Sulu's gaze turned heavenward. He could not see the mighty Airships themselves, so high up were they and hidden by cloud cover, but he knew they were there. He only hoped that by the time they were in position to cast down their heavenly wrath, his men would be out of the way.

* * *

_Hogwarts Grounds Imperial Front Lines…_

Sergeant Edward Cain of the 12th Imperial Legion was, as most people in his Legion were, a Harrisburg volunteer. This meant that he'd joined the army _after_ the coup, and more importantly, _after _the Battle of Harrisburg. To the rest of the army, he had no doubts that he and his Legion-mates were all a bunch of FNG's, but Edward had felt such pride in volunteering that he didn't mind the grumblings of the veterans from the other Legions, who often complained about how the new guys would end up getting them all killed.

Even so, and with a few months of preparation, Edward had never truly grasped the concept of warfare, he realized belatedly. He had imagined, as had many others, that war was pretty much like the Battle of Harrisburg—full of heroic last stands, staunch defences, and so forth. He had never actually considered that battle could be anything else, and this was a lesson he was being forced to learn right now.

He and his platoon had been sent to the very front of the line to try and push the golem army back a few yards, so as to give the Warders the time they needed to advance the Imperial trench lines. This meant using the craters left behind by the Basilisk gun's occasional bombardment as cover, given that other than that, it was pretty much flat ground from their lines to the Second Gate.

So far, things had started off pretty badly. His Lieutenant, a pretty little thing called Margaret Sewell, had taken a slicing curse to the face, and had to be medivacked out of the firefight urgently, leaving him in command. This was particularly bad news for Edward, since Lieutenant Sewell was an honest-to-God war veteran of the Fifth Legion who'd opted to transfer to his Legion in order to guarantee the availability of good leadership even amongst the newer military units. Edward, on the other hand, was about as green as spring grass.

Still, a coward he was not, and he wasn't about to leave his men directionless. Standing in the middle of one of the deeper craters left by the Basilisk gun's bombardment, he looked around and saw most of his platoon taking cover rather than returning fire. He couldn't blame them, given the incessant barrage of spells that were coming their way.

That didn't mean they could stay there, however. The Warders were counting on them to keep the enemy back long enough for the trench works to get completed. Thus, Edward knew what he had to do, even if he had to be the first one to do it. Pulling off an ME grenade from his belt, he took two steps forward up the crater slope, pulled out the pin with his teeth, and flung it out of the crater, towards the awaiting enemies. Even as the grenade sailed upwards, he brought up his rifle and, keeping it at hip-level, poured off a few rounds at his assailants, yelling in a frenzy as he did so.

Spells whizzed by his head and body as he miraculously didn't get killed for his insane show of bravado and heroism. It was only when the ME grenade hit ground and exploded—taking out two dozen enemy troops in the process—that Edward turned towards his men, the loosened earth from the explosion still raining down behind him.

"Come on, then, you sorry sacks!" he roared. "You maggots want to live forever?!"

It was a cliché, he knew, but a time-honoured one, and it worked just as well for him now as it did in all those movies. Inspired by their (possibly) insane sergeant's seeming imperviousness to get hit, the thirty or so remaining members of the platoon rose from their craters and opened fire on the enemy troops, taking down quite a few of them thanks in part to the confusion that the ME grenade had caused. Following such an example, numerous more of the platoon imitated him, and it was soon raining down ME grenades all over the place, causing massive blasts within the enemy ranks.

Edward pulled out a cigar from his jacket pocket and set it firmly between his teeth, lighting it up with the heated barrel of his rifle. It was another cliché, but he figured that they only ever became clichés due in part to their repeated effectiveness. He watched as his green troops decidedly punched a hole in the enemy ranks, and they were about to capitalize on it when he was suddenly tapped on the shoulder. Turning his head sideways, he glanced a young private from his platoon pointing towards the sky behind him.

"What is it, private?" he growled through his teeth.

"Sir, a flare!" the private pointed out, "Command is ordering us to pull back!"

Edward couldn't believe it, even as he turned around and confirmed it himself. Just as he was coming into his position; just as his men were starting to act like the Imperial soldiers the veterans complained they would never be, Command was pulling them off the line?!

"Fuck!" he yelled angrily. There was no way to fight Command on this, he knew. An order was an order, lest the 12th Legion become tainted with his insubordination. Quickly pulling out a whistle from inside his uniform, he blew it with all his might and waved his hands at his advancing platoon.

"FALL BACK!" he roared. "TO THE TRENCHES! FALL BACK!"

His troops seemed as dismayed as he felt, but he would brook no hesitation. "SMITH!, HENDERSON! MOVE IT! ALL TROOPS FALL BACK!" he kept yelling, marching up and down the scattered line until he was sure everyone was obeying, simultaneously ignoring the spellfire that kept missing him by a hair's breadth. "WHAT ARE YOU ALL WAITING FOR?! AN INVITATION?! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"

It was only when the last trooper had disengaged from the enemy that Edward finally began his own trek to the trenches, covering his escape by firing off sporadically at the enemy ranks. It was insane, he mused, how the enemy's troops just kept falling and still coming at them. How many had they already killed, and how many would they _have_ to kill in order to finish this fight?

That same question burned within the minds of every Imperial soldier.

And then, without warning, the sky was lit on fire.

* * *

_Hogwarts Second Gate,_

_Two Hours Ago…_

Neville had been woken up quite suddenly from his nap. The trooper that had been shaking him seemed to be shaking as well, fear all over the young man's face as he kept repeating something that he was only slowly beginning to process in his mind.

"…is breaking, sir!" the young man kept repeating. "Sir, do you understand me? The gate is _not_ going to hold!"

This time, Neville finally realized the young man's message and instantly shot to his feet, already sprinting towards the gate, the soldier right behind him. Neville couldn't believe that things had just taken such a horrible turn for the worse. The Second Gate, according to pre-Battle intelligence, was the single most heavily warded fortification that the castle had, barring the castle itself. There simply was no reason for the gate to be crumbling.

Yet, standing in front of the magically reinforced steel gate, Neville couldn't deny the trooper's report. The gate was indeed starting to bend backwards, the constant assault finally taking its toll on it. There was no time to lose.

Neville spun on his heel to face the soldier who'd reported the problem. "Pass the word for all troops not currently on the walls to begin reinforcing this gate!" he ordered. "Have them bring up stone from the cave and whatever else they can find to block this doorway!"

"Yes, sir!" the soldier said, snapping off a salute and then running off to relay the order.

Neville, for his part, turned his attention to the damaged gate. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and, pulling out his wand, pointed it straight at the doorway. "_Reparo!_" he incanted, and a jet of magical energy raced towards the damaged gate, hitting it but otherwise making no discernable difference.

The Brigadier narrowed his eyes. It had been too simple a trick, he supposed. He would have to unleash the big guns. Stowing away the wand, he instead brought up both hands and, having them face the door palms-up, he tried the incantation once again, tapping deep into his magical reserves. _"REPARO!_"

This time, there was some effect as two beams of magical energy raced from his hands and connected with the gate. The gate began to straighten itself out thanks to the spell, but it was obvious to Neville that the only repairs being made were of a structural kind, not magical. The magical defences themselves were withering under the continued assault, which meant that while the gate would be structurally sound, its magical reinforcement would eventually die out, leaving it highly vulnerable to systematic magical _and_ physical assault.

Neville finally gave up his magical repair when the gate was fully restored to its previous integrity, but the decaying magical reinforcement made him lose none of his previous disconcertment. They were still in a _very_ bad state, especially if the gate fell before Sulu's army managed to reach them.

His musings were broken when he noticed the first team of troopers pass right by him carrying rocks, no doubt from the cavern as he'd ordered, and placed them right against the gate. Then another squad, and another followed them, until each of the rotational teams had dropped off some sort of material to feed the barricade. Even so, the amount of material barricading the gate went up no more than three feet off the ground and two feet from the it, barely enough to deter the enemy advance. Thankfully, they seemed to realize this _en masse_, and so quickly went back to the cavern and wherever else they found their material of choice to block the entrance.

For the next two hours, that was all that Neville occupied himself with. Directing the teams as they came with more and more material, he had them pack the rocks and wood tightly, making sure that there were _no_ structural deficiencies in the barricade that could collapse the whole thing in one hit. It was a tiresome task for his men, but they kept going at it, the stakes far too obvious for them not to.

At this point, Neville had opted to get back on the ramparts, anxious to see how the men there were faring. Taking the staircase two steps at a time, he was quickly at the top, just in time to see an Imperial regular take a blasting curse to the chest, flinging the man backwards towards the edge. Quickly summoning his wand to his hand, Neville shouted out another incantation, "_Accio!_"

The man jerked sideways as Neville's spell grabbed him just as he was about to go over the edge. However, instead, the man crashed right into Neville, who had jumped sideways to avoid falling down the stone staircase. It was only when they had stopped sliding on the stone ground that Neville realized that his actions had been fruitless—the man had been killed by the blasting hex on impact. Pushing off the corpse, Neville quickly got to his feet, ignoring the offered hands from nearby soldiers. A quick scan of the battlements told him that this particular rotational group had suffered quite a lot during their tenure. He could see at least twenty corpses along the wall, and several more seemed wounded.

The ADST corporal he'd talked to earlier was alive, he saw, but wounded, given the bleeding gash over her left brow. She didn't let it hinder her work, however, as she kept yelling off orders and intermittently fired off several rounds from her assault rifle into the assaulting crowd at the feet of the gate.

"Corporal!" he shouted, jogging towards her. The woman looked up from her assault at his call. "Status report!"

The woman returned her gaze to her work. "We've got twenty down, thirty injured, sir!" she told him brusquely. "Fucking dolls all of a sudden started assaulting the gate like it was going out of style; took down five men before we realized this was different from their usual lemming attacks!"

Neville nodded grimly. "I know," he told her. "The gate's losing structural integrity. The others are reinforcing it with whatever they can find, but we need more time," he pressed.

The woman shrugged. "We're giving them all we've got, sir. Ain't nothing more I can do for you," she told him honestly, taking down another three golems with a well-aimed burst.

"How long, do you think?" he pressed again. "How long till defences fail outright?"

The ADST gave him a grim look. "One hour, maybe. Less if the ammunition runs out. After that, it's in the Maker's hands," she told him. "Even so, I'd get ready for a last stand, sir. If that gate breaches, there won't be any of us that'll be able to get away."

Neville nodded just as grimly. "I know, we're—"

"What the hell is that?!" someone shouted, interrupting Neville and catching both his and the ADST's attention.

Looking up at the sky where the soldier was pointing, the two caught sight of the sky reddening at a spectacular rate. It was, Neville realized, as though the sky had been lit on fire.

* * *

_HMIS Invincible…_

Harry was back on his chair, calmly observing the holographic display of the battlefield. Specifically, his eyes were set on the holographic projections of the Airfleet, which was quickly moving into aerial bombardment positions above the battlefield.

"Sir, we've got positional confirmations from the _Black Watch_, _Implacable, Relentless, _and_ Empire_. The _Victory, Zeus, Zama, Churchill, _and_ Ascension_ all report that they will be in position within three minutes," reported one of the communications crewmen. "The _Aurora_, _Magnificent_, _Augustine_, and _Belisarius_ are all holding back at the coast, as per your orders."

Wolf nodded gratefully, turning his attention to the helmsman. "Helmsman, how much further till we are in position?" he asked.

The helmsman punched in a few keys on his keyboard and read the information that flashed onto his screen before answering. "Twenty seconds till in position, Admiral," he reported dutifully. He then turned to his co-pilots. "Three degrees starboard, lads."

"Three degrees, aye, sir."

Harry ignored the din of the control room, focusing intently on the holographic display. So far, Riddle hadn't done anything to stop the Airfleet from moving onto the battlefield, as he thought the older man would. Harry wasn't fond of admitting this, but he was slightly nervous at the man's inaction. Did this mean that the castle wasn't going to work for another MS 5? That would be great news, but there was no empirical evidence to suggest that. So far, he had to assume that Riddle had an ace up his sleeve that even he wasn't aware of.

Just then, his attention was broken by Ginny's warm breath hitting the left side of his neck. "Dear, we have visitors," she practically purred into his ear, making him shiver imperceptibly.

Wheeling his chair around, he watched as several people entered the bridge at that moment. At their head was Ron Weasley, followed by his wife and parents, and then Frank Longbottom and Mad-Eye Moody, who were half-carrying, half-dragging Dumbledore.

Harry sighed. This couldn't possibly end well.

Indeed, Ron's ears were reddened from suppressed anger. "What's this we're hearing about a bombardment of Hogwarts?!" he demanded.

Wolf, who already hated it when normal people entered his bridge, was practically fuming as he saw the ex-Order once again trample their way into the bridge. "That is none of your concern, Mister Weasley," the Admiral snapped off, retaining only a modicum of politeness towards the intruders. "These are military affairs, and you were not called to the bridge, so please vacate the premises!"

Both Ron and Molly Weasley seemed about to launch into a tirade when Hermione pushed through them and appealed to Harry directly, standing right in front of him.

"Please!" she asked. "You can't do this!"

Harry seemed half-amused. "Can't I?"

"I get it that you hate the ex-Order, but punishing us by vaporizing an institution that has been around for thousands of years is not the way!" she continued.

"Sir, we are in position," called the helmsman.

"Power up the ventral Basilisk cannons!" yelled Wolf.

"Gunnery crews are being notified, sir!"

The gaggle of orders being flung around seemed to make Hermione only more desperate.

"Please!" she begged, falling on her knees. "Hogwarts was our home! Our place of learning!"

"Sir, please listen to her!" Arthur Weasley spoke up then, adding his plea to hers. "If Hogwarts falls, a millennia of magical history and knowledge would be lost forever!"

Harry made no move to stop the order, merely giving them a curious half-smile. The Weasley patriarch turned his attention to his daughter.

"Ginny, please! You know the worth of Hogwarts Castle!" he tried to reason with her. "Have you no good memories of it? Have you forgotten all that you learned there?"

Ginny shrugged. "It's just a school," she retorted simply. "Stone and mortar. Nothing that can't be rebuilt."

"It won't be the same," Frank interjected then. "You can rebuild something over and over again till the cows come home, but it'll never be exactly the same as before."

Moody nodded. "I agree. We've already lost so much of our heritage, do we really have to destroy the last piece of it?" he asked rhetorically. "I hate Riddle as much as the next guy—hell, even more—but even I can see that this is just too much!"

"Sir, the remaining ships are in position," the communications crewman notified Wolf, who nodded back before turning to Harry.

"Your Grace, all ships are in position and awaiting your order," he reported dutifully.

This was it. The moment were everything was decided.

Dumbledore, who had been silent until now, wearily released himself from the grip of his two former comrades and took a shaky step forward until he was right in front of Harry, his former hope for the Magical World.

"This is unreasonable of you, Your Grace," he noted sombrely. "You can take Hogwarts any other way, but you would rather reduce it to dust?"

Harry's gaze was unshakeable as he stared right up at the older man. "My way saves thousands of lives," he replied firmly.

"And mine saves the last vestiges of a proud culture. A culture you have let into your Empire, might I remind you," he added. "How will they react when they hear the Empire has eradicated any remaining links with their past?"

Harry smiled sinisterly. "They will build a new future, Dumbledore," he replied simply. "Or they will die. Just like Hogwarts will die."

Dumbledore's wand suddenly flew into his hand, taking everyone by surprise. "I am sorry to hear that, Your Grace," the man said regretfully, taking a few steps back. "But I cannot allow you to do this. _STUPEFY!_"

The immense, powerful jet of magical energy had very little distance to travel, but to the utter surprise of everyone, it was easily batted away by Harry, who stood his ground. The Imperial guardsmen around the bridge then lifted their weapons and aimed them at the group of mages. They only stood down when Harry waved them off.

Closing his eyes, Harry chuckled, then laughed outright. "You presume yourself so powerful, Dumbledore?" he asked jocularly. "You think yourself so supreme over us that you can dictate whether or not we can or cannot do something? FOOL!"

With a wave of his hand, Dumbledore's wand was ripped out of the old man's grasp, landing gently in the palm of Harry's hand, where he proceeded to snap it in two with the sheer force of his grip.

"You are a relic, Dumbledore," he sneered, letting the pieces fall to the ground in front of Dumbledore's very shocked eyes. "A pitiful remnant of a deceased time. The Empire will take it from here, if you don't mind."

Harry turned towards Wolf, who looked quite satisfied with the unfolding events. "You may fire when ready, Admiral. Rend the very surface unto glass!"

Wolf had a wicked smile on his face. "Gladly, Your Grace."

Even as Wolf turned to give the order, Harry turned back to the ex-Order delegation, all of whom had reached for their wands in between Dumbledore and Harry's confrontation. With another wave of his hand, all the wands flew out of their grasps towards Ginny who proceeded to tuck them safely away within her robes with a smirk. In response, Harry suddenly increased the magical output he was emitting and focused it all on the group, forcing them to their knees as he moved to the side, letting them all see the holographic display of the battle.

"Now watch," he told them. "Watch as I destroy the last obstacle to the Empire's path to glory!"

And then Wolf gave the order. "FIRE ALL CANNONS!"

* * *

It was as though the world had ended.

Tearing through the sky, the massed shellfire from the Airfleet rained down onto the ground with the force of meteorites, ripping the earth asunder as they hit ground. Whatever the impact of the shells didn't kill, the fire and explosions that followed did.

The Imperial Army, having received the Airfleet's warning, was safely hiding out in their trenches as the Airfleet proceeded to vaporize their enemies, their own lines being safe thanks to the infrared strobes they had set about their furthermost trench works. They watched silently as the ground between them and the Second Gate was blasted apart, and they could see the occasional golem pieces flying about just before being consumed by the subsequent fire.

Nothing would ever grow on those grounds ever again, such was the magnitude of the destruction.

It wasn't just one volley, either. The Airfleet kept up their barrage with impunity, blasting the earth away until they had practically hit bedrock. The very earth shook as each shell hit ground, ripping up earth that hadn't seen the light of day in hundreds of years and vaporizing even the smallest and most robust of bacteria.

The heat was also unbearable, even to the hiding frontline Imperial troops. It got to the point where the front lines were entirely evacuated as the integrity of the soil around it became more and more unstable and the heat more and more dangerous. The ten furthest trenches were completely drained of troops as they all bulked at the very back of the Imperial camp, near the debris that had once been the only way into the valley.

At the Second Gate, things were even more precarious. Having felt the third shell impact the ground with such terrifying results, Neville had ordered everyone off the walls. The result was essentially a frenzied retreat off the ramparts until everyone was huddled behind the gate's protective walls. Even as the Airfleet knew not to target the Second Gate, however, their shells, combined with slight alterations in trajectory due to wind, did sometimes hit not far from the gate, causing the barricaded door to tremble slightly every time, even as some soldiers took refuge within the cavernous passageway behind the barricade.

Those who did not take refuge inside the cavernous orifice could barely stand to look at the sky, which had turned reddish orange in a testament to the intensity of the bombardment. Sometimes, it was even difficult to see at all, with all the explosions causing massive flashes that rendered some of them blind for a few seconds.

It was, all in all, a terrifying spectacle to behold.

* * *

_HMIS Invincible…_

"…reports indicate that all surface targets have been neutralized, sir."

Wolf smiled in satisfaction. The fleet had performed its role well, with the ME shells doing their two-fold job of tearing the wards apart _and_ vaporizing the enemy golem army. All that the video displays could show at this point was numerous smoking craters that dotted the battlefield, with the exception of the area of the Second Gate and General Sulu's forces. There was nothing keeping the two ground forces from linking up now. "Very well, cease fire."

"Ceasing fire, aye sir."

Wolf turned to Harry and gave a crisp salute, secretly relishing the devastated look on the ex-Order members' faces. "Your Grace, I am glad to report the destruction of the totality of the enemy's ground forces."

Harry nodded gratefully before returning to his command chair. "Good. Do you remember the communication package I ordered you to put together, Admiral?"

"Yes, Your Grace. It is ready to go on your command."

Harry nodded again. "Good. Send it out at once," he ordered. "Then, have the First Legion board their insertion vehicles. Have them ready to deploy upon confirmation of mission completion by the Black Operations personnel."

"Yes, Your Grace, as you wish."

Harry then turned to Ginny. "Love, if you don't mind, I'd like you to go prepare with the First Legion now," he told her. "I'll meet you there when it's time to go."

Ginny smiled and nodded, giving him a peck on the lips before leaving the bridge, the ex-Order wands still in her possession. Harry then turned to the crippled wizards and witches and smiled.

"You have now seen the might of the Empire," he told them. "You can, as the old man did, try and stop us, and thus be destroyed," he offered. "Or, you can cease and desist your treacherous activities and work with us towards a brighter future."

"The choice is now yours."

* * *

_Post-AN: Before anyone asks why the Second Gate didn't seem to get the memo that the Airfleet was about to turn the ground into Swiss cheese, remember their location. Being right outside the castle meant they got the MS 5 at point blank range, frying their electronics even beyond the repairing capabilities of Harry's ritual (which, by the way, I'm still not satisfied with; any help on making it sound better is gladly appreciated)._

_As always, please review! - MB  
_


	48. Chapter XXXXI: The Hunters

_AN: Shorter chapter, I know. Still, there was no reason to prolong it, I found, so here you go._

_

* * *

Hogwarts Second Gate…_

Neville got up from the ground with his ears ringing. Hell, even his vision was a bit blurry, following the aftermath of the world being set on _fire_. The same could be said about most of his men, who were in varying positions on the ground, what with that last blast having knocked them to the ground properly. Thankfully, the stone walls of the gate had held, as had the barricade, but he wondered about anything beyond them. First things first, however, he had to figure out if there had been any wounded or casualties following the mass bombardment. There probably weren't, but he still had to make sure.

"SITREP!" he yelled as he got to his feet.

At first, no one answered him, but he knew this was mostly due to the fact that the others were also feeling a bit woozy following that amazingly danger-close bombardment. Neville decided to make things easier for the confused troops.

"ROTATION TEAMS, SOUND OFF!" he called out again.

It took a few minutes, but eventually, he got answers back from the men.

"Team One, all green!"

"Team Two, green!"

"Team Three, green!"

"Team Four, green!"

"Team Five, green!"

Neville nodded, pleased with the results. "Teams One, Three, and Five stay down here and shore up gate defences!" he ordered. "Teams Two and Four, on me! We're manning the walls!"

Neville's orders seemed to breathe life back into the small detachment. The NCOs and officers alike began to shout out the appropriate orders as the men regained their balance and got to their feet. Soon enough, the groups had been divided once again into their corresponding teams, while Neville made his way up the stairway, a little anxious in regards to what he might find once he got to the top. After that heavy of a bombardment, he doubted anything on the field would survive. Hell, the sky itself was still tinged with a reddish-orange hue!

Neville was not disappointed when he reached the parapets and took a good, hard look at the situation beyond his gate. The field between the Second Gate and the Imperial lines had been decimated by the bombardment. Even then, the word didn't seem appropriate enough to describe what had happened there. It was as though the ground had been sucked into the earth for several meters, leaving nothing but a gaping hole between the two Imperial detachments, with the only way across being the crater itself. Ironic, considering that the damage had been such that the water from the Black Lake had begun filtering in, which could soon give the Imperial forces _another_ obstacle to deal with if it filled up the crater.

"Fuck me sideways," he heard a soldier breathe next to him.

Neville nodded absently at the profanity. It certainly matched what he was thinking, anyway. The sheer magnitude of the destruction before his eyes was both breathtaking and horrifying. He easily guessed that this was the handiwork of the Airfleet, but even then he had never actually _seen_ them perform such a bombing run _ever_.

"God, I hope the lads on the other side got out in time," whispered another soldier to Neville's left. "No one can get caught in a blast like that and survive!"

Blanching, Neville realized that the man was correct. Having lost all communications with _everyone_, they had no idea what had happened to the Imperial Army under Sulu's direction. With all the smoke rising from the craters, it was still impossible to see across the field, and even then, there was no way to contact them. Even if he saw them, he could not readily assume they were Imperials—for all he knew, Sulu had been overrun and the golems had taken the Imperial positions.

That brought things into focus for Neville once more. Taking a deep breath, he held it in for a second before letting it all out, thus calming his nerves. He then turned to the soldier on his left and gave him a grim look.

"We haven't neither the time nor the luxury of worrying for others, soldier," he told the man bluntly. "Not while we're still defending this death trap." He then turned and cupped his mouth with his hands. "ALL TEAMS, MAN POSITIONS! SHORE UP DEFENSIVE MEASURES AT ONCE!"

Neville watched as the teams quickly went to follow his orders, often rushing towards the half-buried drop pods for materials. "I WANT THREE-SIXTY DEGREES DEFENSIVE CAPABILITIES!" he continued. "HMGs ARE TO COVER ALL POSSIBLE AVENUES OF ATTACKS!"

Neville felt good, for the first time since their failed initial attack. Even if the enemy had not been defeated, the lull in the fighting _finally_ allowed him the time to set up proper defences all over the gate. So far, they had to content themselves with using the parapets as cover, with nothing at all covering their rear. There had simply been no time to do so, especially since the rotational structure of their deployment had demanded that the off-duty teams rest while the on-duty team takes over on the parapets. Now, he could take his time and properly make the Second Gate into a difficult position to take.

Well, more so than they had already made it into with their incredible defence.

Not that Neville was about to let his men do all the work, however. Having given the general order to shore up defensive works, he then proceeded to lend a hand by using his magic to pry some of the metal sheets from the drop pods' hulls right off, which, being resistant to all sorts of extreme conditions, would work miracles in protecting their positions. Additionally, the ADSTs also provided sandbags that had been loaded onto the pods for such an eventuality. Those were immediately placed in a semi-circle around the gate crevasse and the stairway, thereby ensuring that any and all methods of access towards their positions were kept firmly within their hands. Furthermore, they placed another heavy defensive line _within_ the gate crevasse, just in case the enemy ever breached the gate barricade. Taking advantage of the narrow passageway inside, the defenders placed three HMGs to cover the interior of the gate, while ten more were placed intermittently along the semi-circle defensive works. Twenty more occupied the spaces between the parapets on top of the gate.

In effect, the defenders had turned the gate into a veritable fortress. However, even then, they didn't feel quite at ease with their preparations, and Neville knew why. No matter how much ammunition they had, their defensive positions would be rendered moot by enemies attacking _en masse_, once the gate and wall were breached.

Thus, when Neville conferred with his officers and the ADST officers, he laid out a plan to counter this problem.

"Trenches," he concluded, drawing lines on the ground outside the pictures that represented their own defensives. "Or rather, gaps. Not just one, though—several. Intermittently placed so as to break any momentum the enemy may acquire."

"My men brought shovels," interjected Captain Lyles at that point, his ADST helmet also off, given its uselessness at this point. "Standard-issue. They should be in the pods still."

Neville nodded gratefully at the unspoken support from the respected war veteran. "We have to take advantage of this lull in the fighting to make sure our position is as least vulnerable as possible," he reiterated to the others in his little cadre of officers. "We're low on manpower, and if it wasn't for our brothers and sisters in the ADST Company, we'd have likely run out of ammunition by now as well. Any questions?"

There were a few mumbled negations and much head shaking, which suited Neville just fine. It meant the men would get to work sooner, and could only be good news for him and the survival of his defenders. One by one, they all left to order their people to excavate the trenches, while Captain Lyles stayed behind, fixing Neville a stern stare.

Eventually, Neville broke the silence first. "Something on your mind, Captain?"

Lyles' stare did not soften. "I was wondering why it wasn't possible to just evac our troops via air support. I reckon the Airfleet's pretty much established they're the big boys in the air by now after that hell of a demonstration in superior firepower, so what's keeping us here?" he asked.

"The Field Marshall wants us to keep this post open for the Imperial Army and General Sulu," Neville reminded him.

Lyles scoffed. "Bollocks," he retorted bluntly. "Pardon the candid speech, sir, but if the Field Marshall wanted this way open for the Army, he could have just blasted it out of existence the moment he let loose the fire and brimstone on the sorry saps on the other side."

Neville thought that one over. It actually rang quite true. Why _were_ they here?

"You want my take on this?" asked Lyles then. Without much thought, Neville nodded. He was personally drawing a blank.

Lyles stretched his shoulders a bit before talking. "Way I see it, there are only two places in this entire, godforsaken valley that are defensible in any way," he told his superior. "Those are the two gates. Problem is, one's buried underneath the combined refuse of two mountains. That leaves ours up as the only really defensible position on the battlefield. Which makes me think that the present state of affairs is not what our illustrious Field Marshall had in mind."

"Riddle pulled a fast one, you mean," interjected Neville.

Lyles nodded. "Now, I'm no strategist, so I've got not a damn clue what we're supposed to be defending against, but given the pre-burying layout of our forces, I'm fairly certain that the Duke wanted us to occupy and hold both gates as the front lines of our assault against Hogwarts."

"Provide stable defensive structures, in case we have to fall back, you mean," Neville clarified curiously. Lyles nodded.

"Right. In case anything between the two gates or between the castle and the Second Gate went wrong. What I'm seeing now, however, is that we didn't count on Riddle having a fallback plan in case the First Gate went out of service," he noted, lighting up a cigarette. "Meaning that as a result, General Sulu is currently without a heavily defended front line structure, and we're woefully undermanned for the defence of our own such structure."

Neville narrowed his eyes. "What are you getting at, Captain?" he asked cautiously. "That we're undermanned and probably outgunned?"

Lyles exhaled some smoke and grinned. "Yeah, but that's not a problem—it's a challenge," he stated. "Nah, what I'm getting at is that whatever hole you're planning to dig, dig it deep and wide. 'Cause, if my gut's anywhere near right, we're going to need the space for all the enemy soldiers that'll come our way."

EWEWEWEWEWEW

_Imperial Army Front Lines, Two Hours later…_

"Mother of Mercy…" whispered Edward Cain as he slowly pulled off his helmet and walked forward, his rifle dangling limply from his hand as he observed the aftermath of the Airfleet's show of ruthless bombardment.

Craters pecked the ground all the way towards the Second Gate, with the middle of the grounds being so particularly indented that there was a real chance that it would eventually flood due to the Lake. Even the air had gone arid, to the point that the soft wind that blew around the bombed area felt prickly and dead.

Edward was, by his own admission, a green trooper. This was his first deployment _ever_, as it was for the rest of the 12th Legion. Even so, even knowing that he was probably unready for the realities of war, he had _never_ expected to see this; this hellish, grotesque picture of warfare.

There was simply nothing there.

"Christ, Sarge…" he heard one of his platoon-men swear. "Are you seeing this? It's like looking at the surface of the moon…with the occasional body part. Ew."

That was the other thing. The hellfire of the bombing had done its job thoroughly in eliminating the enemy troops, but they had not consumed them entirely. He could still see the occasional remnants of what were once golems lying about. Considering their surprising similarity to the human anatomical structure, that made the body parts they found all the more disgusting.

"Jeez…flyboys really tore this place up…"

"Less talking, Henderson," snapped Edward as he strapped his helmet back on. "AT masks on. Don't want to breath anything that'll kill us while we recon," he then ordered, pulling out a transparent plastic mask from his kit and placing it firmly on his face, where he felt the device suction itself firmly onto him. Instantly, air seemed to be pumping into the tubeless device—the plastic-like membrane actually filtering the air around him as he walked about.

"What are we looking for, sir?" asked one of the men as they followed him forward, the man's voice slightly muffled by the mask.

"The general wants us to make sure that the way between us and the Second Gate is clear. Don't want to rush into an ambush right off the bat, do we?" he asked rhetorically. "Besides, anything to get away from the blistering heat at the camp and the fretting about. At least here, we're doing some good."

The troop remained silent thereafter, slowly trudging behind their Acting Commanding Officer obediently. The march through the earth cloud that the bombing had left behind was tricky; more than once, one of their number would either slip into a crater or stumble about, the cloud was so thick. Hell, they had even pulled down visors to protect their eyes from the tiny earth particles.

"Anything alive in this thing, hats off to them," Edward heard one of his men—Henderson—mutter.

"I hear that," answered another.

"Anyone see anything relevant?" Edward asked then, cutting into the chatter.

Negatives came back from the other soldiers, all of which seemed to be more focused on the magnitude of the destruction than on surveying the remains of the golem army. Again, to be fair, they were all new to the army life.

Edward pointed up his rifle as he used his left hand to tap the communicator in his ear. "HQ, HQ; this is Second Platoon Sergeant Edward Cain, Twelfth Legion. Reporting zero contacts. I say again, zero contacts on bombing fields," he reported in. "Interrogative: what should we do now?"

He didn't have to wait long for an answer to come. "_Sergeant Cain, this is General Sulu_," he heard the transmitter relay. "_You are to proceed towards the Second Gate and then send up a green flare once you're there to convey an All-Safe guarantee. If you encounter enemy resistance, send up a red flare and fall back. Do you copy, Sergeant Cain?_"

The transmission was a little choppy—undoubtedly both from the dense dust cloud and their closing proximity to the castle proper, but Edward had received the orders quite clearly. "Wilco, HQ. We are oscar mike."

Lowering his left hand back to his rifle, he lifted the weapon back up in ready-position as he turned to face his men. "Troopers! On me! We're headed to the Second Gate!" he barked. Lifting his weapon to eye level and scanning his surroundings down the sights, he then proceeded to wait for none of his men to answer and led the way, his movements perfectly as he had practiced back in training camp.

The platoon was quick to follow, and as a group, they attempted to navigate the dust cloud as best they could, but even their compasses were going haywire from the artillery discharges, combined with the castle's overpowering magical presence. As a result, most of their movement was based mainly on trusting Edward that he knew where he was going, which he had to admit to himself that he was quickly doubting that, considering how much they had marched with no end in sight.

"Damnit!" cursed Edward under his breath. "Where the hell is that gate?"

A yelp caught his attention. "What was what?!" he barked accusingly at his men.

"Wilson fell in a crater, sir!"

Edward glowered at the unseen voice. The dust cloud seemed to be getting thicker and thicker with every step they took. "Get him out of there, then, and keep moving! We've got to send up that flare!"

"What flare?" he heard one of his men mumble, but Edward paid it no heed. They weren't here to question him, merely to follow him.

Another yelp surprised him, and he turned around with a vicious glare on his face. "Who keeps dropping into craters?!" he shouted. "WILSON?!"

"Sir, that wasn't Wilson!" replied one of the men. "We haven't heard from him since he fell into that crater!"

Edward goggled at that. "How is that possible? I said to get him out!" He looked around, vainly trying to get a glimpse of the owners of the replies. He couldn't see more than a foot ahead of himself through the dense dust cloud.

"Don't know what to tell you, sir. We—ARGH!" the voice suddenly yelled out in pain.

"What the hell was that?!" shouted one of the other soldiers, panicked. "What was—_JESUS CHRIST!_"

Edward heard a few shots ring out before the man who'd been panicking suddenly let out a blood-curdling scream. That did it for Edward.

"CONTACT!" he yelled, lifting up his rifle and wildly aiming all around him. "Seek each other out and protect yourselves!"

More screaming and shots rang out. The only difference now was that Edward could hear the sound of feral snarling or growling just before each yell. What the hell was going on here?

Edward was suddenly reminded of his mission. He had to let the others know. Quickly reaching for his side-pouch, he retrieved the flare and quickly rammed the long launching stick into the barrel of his rifle. Then, pointing his gun upwards, he pressed back on the trigger.

Only to be rammed in the middle by some unseen force, knocking the rifle out of his hands just before the trigger had launched the flare. Now sprawled on the ground, Edward could still see nothing around him except for his rifle. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he quickly turned onto his stomach and made for the rifle, slowly getting up in the process.

Unfortunately, he was yet again prevented from completing his desired task by being thrown down to the ground, this time accompanied by the amazingly painful feeling of someone clawing his back violently.

"_FUCK!_" he yelled, his voice merely adding to the myriad of similar screams all around him. Instinctively, he knew that his men were dying, and that he would probably die as well, but Edward had one last thing to do if that was to be his fate this day.

Still ignoring the unseen creature that was tormenting him, he began to slowly move towards the rifle, until it was within reach. Then, just as he was clawing forward to get it, he felt something heavy press down on his back, right where his injury was. Hissing in pain, he felt his head hit dirt as the force pressed down on him firmly. On top of him, he could _smell_ decay, which told him this was most assuredly a very, very bad person or thing he was dealing with.

"Human…" growled _something_ on top of him before giving a very animalistic scoff. "…should have known…always summoned for the weak speciessss…"

Edward felt a great deal of outrage a the casual dismissal of his race, but wisely kept silent, in case the _thing_ on top of him said anything else that might give him a chance to get out of this alive.

The beat growled again, this time somewhat resignedly. "…No matterrr…food is food…" it seemed to conclude before lowering its…head(?) down to Edward's ear. "Sssso, human…any last wordsssss?"

Edward sneered, his hand slowly reaching down towards his pistol holster, which the creature didn't seem to notice, thankfully. "Yeah, I got something to say," he said defiantly.

The creature made a weird noise that Edward assumed was a chuckle. "Oh…?"

"Yeah." Edward felt his hand touch the holster and softly snapped it loose, allowing him to reach the pistol grip. At that moment, he burst into action, suddenly pushing himself to the side. The action was so instantaneous that it seemed the creature had been taken completely by surprise, as it fell sideways with him as a result of his manoeuvre. His back pained him a great deal, but Edward fought through the pain as he rolled onto his back and sat up in one fluid motion, his pistol now firmly in both hands as he aimed it at the recuperating creature.

It was terrifying. Just looking at it made every instinct in Edward's body scream in alarm, and he had to fight the urge to run right there and then. It had the same body of a tiger, but its head was different. It was more canine-shaped, but with an almost jagged end. Two slits underneath the obsidian eyes that seemed to emit smoke replaced what Edward assumed was the normal placement of the nose. Jagged protrusions all over its back added to its horrifying look, and even its tail had a sharpened end.

Still, Edward would not be deterred. He had a mission to accomplish, and green though he was, he was not a coward.

"How about: _fuck you_!" he yelled, pulling the trigger three times in rapid succession, successfully hitting the creature in the head twice as the third shot instead embedded itself in its shoulder.

Just prior to dying, the creature gave off a dying whine as the shots hit flesh, but otherwise simply fell to its wounded side, the hurt shoulder giving out almost immediately upon death.

Edward, for his part, was fighting an oncoming mental breakdown as he realized just what had happened and how close he'd come to dying at the hands of this…_creature_. Quickly, he went for his earpiece, only to find out that the fall had broken it—also causing several nasty cuts all over his ear. Cursing, Edward turned quickly towards where his rifle was and snatched it off the ground, flare missile still stuck at its head, and ran off in a random direction, hoping that it was the right way to the gate.

Behind him, he could hear growling and snarling, and Edward suddenly understood that more of the same creature had somehow made it onto this battlefield. Well, to hell with them. Picking up the pace and simultaneously ignoring the pain on his back, he sprinted forward, even as he heard raging howls behind him—undoubtedly as a result of the other creatures finding their dead companion.

Pushing down his fear, Edward kept his mind focused on getting the hell out of there. If he found no other way, however, he was ready to fire up the flare, his finger already on the trigger. Several times, he almost tripped as he ran, mostly due to the scattered craters that pockmarked the area. Even worse, the dust cloud had not abated at all, severely impairing his vision.

"_Fuck!_" he swore, again almost tumbling to the ground due to a crater. Despite stumbling, however, he never once slowed his pace, continuing his sprint even as he heard the growling and snarling behind him. They were hunting him, and from the sound of things, they were getting closer.

Eventually, however, it happened. He managed to run straight into one of the bigger craters in the valley and tumbled down to the very bottom, his finger thankfully off the trigger, lest he fire the flare down into the ground. Even so, however, Edward was not about to stop. He couldn't. Stopping meant death.

Thus, quickly rolling onto his feet, he gritted hit teeth and sprang right back into a sprint, desperately climbing up the slope of the crater as best he could. In doing so, he realized something. The slope wasn't ending, despite the fact that he was pretty sure he'd climbed about as much as he'd fallen. Hope hit him then. The Second Gate was mid-way up such a slope! Redoubling his efforts, he kept up his pace, his rifle moving back and forth as his arms pumped up and down, matching his continuous legwork.

Figuring this was as best a time as possible to make himself known, in case the Second Gate defenders were wiling to shoot anything that moved first before asking questions, Edward started shouting at the top of his lungs, hoping they'd be close enough to listen and help him, and that the creatures were as confused by him due to the dust cloud that they would be far back enough to let him get to the gate first before they realized where he was.

"HEY! ANYONE!" he screamed, still running. "SERGEANT EDWARD CAIN! TWELFTH LEGION SECOND PLATOON! SOMEONE HELP ME!"

Howls erupted somewhere behind him, and Edward thanked his lucky stars that the creatures seemed far back enough that it would take them at least a few minutes to reach him. That was more than enough, if he was close to the gate. Continuing his yells as he moved forward, he was finally gratified when someone answered.

"Who goes there?!" he heard someone call back. "Stop and identify yourself!"

Edward rolled his eyes. Figures some by-the-book moron would be on sentry duty. He'd just called out his names multiple times, for god's sake! "EDWARD CAIN, YOU SOD! SERGEANT, SECOND PLATOON, TWELFTH LEGION!" he yelled right back. "I AM BEING PURSUED BY ENEMY CONTACTS! OPEN THE MOTHERFUCKING GATE!"

He knew he was getting closer the moment he realized he could hear footsteps hitting stone, and this was confirmed mere seconds later as, without any gradual dampening, he suddenly burst out of the dust cloud and into the daylight, the gate no more than a few meters ahead of him. Atop the gate, he could see several HMG positions aimed right at him and the cloud behind him, and the soldiers manning them seemed surprised to see him.

"BEHIND ME!" he yelled at them. "ENEMY CONTACTS IN PURSUIT!"

In front of him, to his despair, he could see the gate still closed. Were they going to leave him out here to die? No Imperial soldier worth the term would _ever_ leave a fellow soldier to die! That was the rule! The code!

He reached the doors and banged on them loudly several times. "OPEN UP! PLEASE!" he begged/yelled. "THEY KILLED OFF MY PLATOON! HELP ME!"

Above him, he could hear the sound of people moving, and as he looked up, he could see a mousy brown-haired person looking down at him. The man was wearing a red coat with General's insignia on it.

Brigadier-General Neville Longbottom.

Taking a step back, Edward waved his arms wildly. "HEY! DOWN HERE!" he kept yelling. "HELP ME, SIR! I'M BEING CHASED BY ENEMY CONTACTS! THEY'RE—"

Just then, he heard someone above him shout, "_Holy fuck!_" and turned to see what the big problem was. Sure enough, at least twenty of those creatures he had faced had hurtled out of the cloud, headed straight for him, their jaws set as they snarled viciously at him.

"_ACCIO!_" he heard someone shout above him then, and just as the closest creature was about to pounce on him, Edward felt his rifle being pulled upwards and thus, himself as well, seeing as how his grip on it was unwavering. Looking up, he saw the Brigadier holding a stick—that he only unconsciously realized was a wand—with a steely, determined gaze on his face, as the other soldiers nearby quickly grabbed onto him as he neared the parapets. Below, the creature was yelping in pain as it hit the steel gate, but quickly recovered and howled vengefully.

Helped over the parapets, Edward quickly realized several things: he was out of breath, his throat hurt like hell, his back was killing him, and his legs had effectively stopped working. Still, he had enough strength to relay one important factoid.

"Mission…" he gasped out, his throat burning up with every syllable. "…flare!"

The Brigadier looked at him compassionately as he nodded, glancing briefly at the rifle. "I understand. Get some rest, soldier. You did good."

Edward then, knowing his mission was complete, passed out.

For his part, Neville knew that everything was just beginning. Quickly looking to the ADST corporal on whom he'd been relying to relay his orders, he nodded at her. "_All_ troops to their positions," he told her grimly. "Fire on sight."

The woman nodded just as grimly. "Yes, sir."

As the woman turned to yell out the orders, Neville bent down and grabbed the discarded rifle, noticing the flare missile still plugged into the barrel. Such an antiquated way, but adequate enough, he supposed. Raising the rifle with one hand so that it would point diagonally upwards, he aimed the flare so that it would explode over the middle of the battlefield, making sure that Sulu would see it.

With a sigh, he pressed the trigger, and watched as the missile flew away, briefly in flight before exploding into numerous red signal lights. All around him, the sound of rifle fire and machine guns opening up filled his ears. Their rest was over. Round 2 had begun. Damn. They hadn't even had time to dig the trenches in front of the gate.

Neville sighed heavily as he brought out his pistol and checked its ammo. When he was satisfied, he pulled back the slider and let it click. "Here we go again."

* * *

_Imperial Lines…_

"There it is," observed Sulu, watching through his binoculars. He was currently fixing his gaze on the flying flare, moments before it exploded into numerous persistent red fires. "Damn it! It's red."

"Orders, sir?" asked an aide.

Sulu kept his watch for a second, making sure he wasn't just seeing things, before lowering the binoculars and glaring at the man. "What do you think? All troops to prepare for defensive fire. I want the Basilisk gun to be ready to fire on order. Also, relay status to Admiral Staples. Tell him to have his _Basilisk_ warships blast the area with the dust cloud. That's probably where the enemy is," he ordered all in one long breath. He raised his binoculars again. "Damn it…what the hell did Cain find?" he muttered angrily.

"Sir, that dust cloud is being unnaturally persistent," one of the Majors on his staff observed. "We can't even tell what the hell is going on at the Second Gate!"

Sulu glared at him. "I can see that, Major," he said icily. "Hell, the flare probably _came_ from the Second Gate. Hopefully, Sergeant Cain and his men are alright."

"Sir!" the aide he'd ordered about suddenly came up. "Admiral Staples says that the dust cloud seems to be interfering with the _Basilisks'_ targeting systems. They are unable to use the electronic interface, but will attempt to provide some measure of covering fire using the analogue targeting systems."

Sulu gritted his teeth. Everything seemed to be going wrong. "We'll have to do without, then. Are the front lines ready?" he asked the aide, who nodded.

"All HMG positions on the front have been manned, sir," reported the aide. "Forty five HMGs are ready to fire on sight, and we've got Third and Fourth Companies of the Second Legion manning the front trenches as well. All other defensive positions have also been assumed, and ready to provide covering fire should the front line be overrun."

Sulu nodded. At least that was some good news. "I want to know the moment we've got a visual on the enemy, do you understand me?" he told the aide.

"Yes, sir!"

Sulu nodded at the man and returned his gaze to his officer staff. Nudging his head towards the makeshift table where the map of the valley was laid out, he led the group of higher-ranking officers to it and assumed a position at the widest section of the table, leaning over the table with his hands on either side of it.

"Gentlemen," he began, seeing them take out their electronic notepads. "The enemy is upon us again. They will likely not change their tactics in assaulting our positions, mostly because they _can't_," he informed them. Moving his left hand to the map, he pointed out where the dust cloud was. "Observe the enemy position vis-à-vis our own. It is no different from the situation previous to the aerial bombardment. Our front lines must still be approached from the front if the enemy wishes to engage us at all. To either of our flanks, we possess the mountain, making such manoeuvres impossible."

"So we should continue our current defensive strategy, sir?" asked one of the more junior Majors. Sulu nodded.

"Indeed, Major, with one difference," he stated. They all looked eager to hear what he had to say. "I want the three furthest most lines to carry out personnel rotations in the event that the fighting lasts more than two hours. Furthermore, I want mortars placed here," he pointed, "here," again, "here, here, and here."

All of the officers nodded as they wrote down the changes. "These emplacements will serve to provide covering fire for the front lines, since we cannot count on ready support fire from the Navy. The moment the enemy comes into view, they are to commence firing and only ever stop if they run out of ammunition."

"As you wish, General," agreed the most senior staff member, a Colonel who looked like he'd seen better days, judging from the three, parallel scars that streaked across his left cheek.

Sulu looked at them all and nodded once, a steely look on his face. "We're close, gentlemen. So close," he reminded them. "The Airfleet's given us a chance to regroup and take down the rest of Riddle's blasted army, and we're not going to waste it. So, every man and woman to their station, and perform to the utmost of your ability," he instructed. "Remember, the Empire expects all of you to do your duty. Our people are counting on you."

It wasn't, by far, anywhere near as pompous and grandiose as one of the Duke's speeches, but it had its effect. The staff officers, usually men and women who never had to fear about going to the front lines, suddenly seemed to stand up straighter, determined looks on their previously anxious faces.

Sulu gave himself an inner smile as he watched them all react to his speech. "Dismissed," he ordered, and watched as they all saluted him and quickly left the area, no doubt headed for their own military units. He wasn't alone for long, however, as his personal aide came up to him with an electronic tablet in hand which he offered his boss.

"Inventory of remaining ammunitions and supplies, sir," explained the aide as he handed over the tablet.

Sulu nodded gratefully and went over the figures. "The Basilisk cannon?" he asked as he read.

"Waiting on your orders, sir," responded the aide as he watched his boss' face for any indication of anger or displeasure at the relayed data.

Sulu nodded, thankful for that bit of news, at least. According to the data on the tablet, however, the ammunition stores were dwindling, since most of it was stuck on the other side of the valley entrance or beneath the rubble in the middle. Defending their position had cost them a lot of men and ammunition, neither of which he could throw around inconsequentially.

"Distribute as much ammunition as we can to the front lines without critically impeding the other trenches' defensive capabilities," he ordered. "Make sure the HMG ammunition is portable; we don't want any left behind because it couldn't be carried."

"Yes, sir."

EWEWEWEWEWEWEW

_Imperial Front Lines…_

Allan Moore, Captain of the Third Company, Second Legion, was not afraid.

Not like the others were, anyway.

They didn't show it, but Allan could practically _smell_ it. It was in the way they joked around—likely the result of attempts at releasing stress via humour—the way they moved, the way they held their guns.

As a Second Legion man, Allan had seen enough combat in his lifetime to make the newer Legions seem like children playing pretend-war. Furthermore, it had ingrained into him a sense of disdain for the newer troops, who acted like merely being in the Imperial Army granted them special privileges. Allan set the more boisterous of those straight, however, and those he…reprimanded were too afraid to report him.

By contrast, the Second Legion's detachments were all manning their positions and quietly keeping a lookout for the enemy forces, which they knew were out there, hidden in the unnatural dust cloud. They didn't need Imperial Intelligence to tell them that, either. All of them had seen enough magical tricks in their lives that they could recognize one almost effortlessly.

His depleted Company, for its part, was charged with holding the centre, distinguished as they were in leading the First Gate assault. Personally, Allan saw this as an opportunity to repent for the Company's mistake of letting one bomb through, nearly wiping out the Imperial Army in the process, had it not been for the timely intervention of the Duchess.

Hell, he owed the woman more than that. He owed the woman his life, and the lives of three other of his men, all of whom would have been as dead as the other two who lost their lives battling Riddle's female lieutenant.

"This is it, lads," he spoke loudly as he patrolled down the trench, his rifle in hand. "We, who led the Army into this death trap, what shall we do?"

"Defend our station!" shouted his men in almost perfect unison. "To the last if need be!"

"And how shall we do such a thing?" he continued, keeping an eye on the dust cloud ahead of the lines.

"With vengeful rage we fire!" replied the soldiers. "With honour we will die!"

"And for _who_ do we fight?"

"For hearth and home!" he heard them call back. "For Empire and Order!"

Allan stopped his patrol, walking to his chosen position near an HMG position, which was being manned by a team of two soldiers—one to fire, the other to load. The two gave him a grim nod, which he returned fully. "Damn straight we do!" he yelled. He then saw the dust cloud shift slightly as something moved to breach its cover.

"_MEN!_" he roared, his rifle already moving up to eye level. "_DEFEND YOURSELVES!_"

"_FOR THE EMPIRE!_"

* * *

_HMIS Invincible…_

"Sir, we're receiving ground reports of enemy contacts assaulting both the Second Gate and the Imperial lines under General Sulu," reported a crewman to Admiral Wolf, who stared at the man, somewhat perplexed.

"After that barrage?" he asked incredulously. "Impossible! Get confirmation from General Sulu at once!" he barked.

From his vantage point at his chair, Harry watched the proceedings with interest. "So…already pulling out the big guns, are we?" he asked rhetorically as he watched the holographic display of the battlefield. He looked up to see Wolf approaching him.

"Sir, it's been confirmed. Strange beasts are assaulting the front lines, but we've got confirmation that all Imperial positions seem to be holding," reported Wolf.

Harry steepled his hands, his face the very picture of hard thought. "It's a bit earlier than I expected, but this is not _wholly_ surprising," he said after a moment of contemplation.

"Sir?"

Harry tapped a few keys on his chair arm before motioning towards the holographic display. A holographic picture of a monstrous, predatory beast had been projected for all to see. "These are not unknown beasts, Admiral," he explained. "What the ground forces are dealing with are none other than the _Venati_; the Hunters."

Wolf stared at Harry incredulously. "Venati? As in, those creatures that you supposedly fought in India?" he asked, shocked. "Everyone thought they were a myth!"

Harry raised an eyebrow at that. "Are you suggesting I _lied_ about it?" he asked somewhat humorously. "Because I assure you, I have the scars to prove that I fought and survived _one_."

Wolf seemed to realize his mistake and quickly apologized. "Sorry, Your Grace, it's just…"

"Too unbelievable?" he asked knowingly. "That was what I thought, even _after_ facing one. I don't fault you for believing the same."

Wolf didn't seem reassured, however. "Sir, if the story is true, then, didn't the Imperial detachment that fought them in India get almost completely wiped out?" he asked nervously.

Harry nodded. "Indeed we were, Admiral," he confirmed, though he quickly raised a hand to stifle the Admiral's protests. "However, General Sulu has an advantage that we did not have in India," he quickly added. "Technology. At the time, we were forced to wait several seconds between shots, whereas the Imperial Army is dug in, well-armed, and technologically capable to mow down swathes of the enemy before they are able to even come near our lines."

"And if they do?" pressed Wolf.

Harry's expression turned grim. "Facing a Venati face to face is easily one of the most terrifying things one can experience, Admiral," he told the man seriously. "Everything about its physiology is designed to instil fear into their prey. Even if one were capable of throwing off more horrendous things than its aspect, however, the Venati counters this by releasing a chemical that stimulates a person's fears. It is, easily, the most dangerous predator alive."

"Shouldn't we bombard the area again, then?" asked Wolf, sweeping his hand towards the projection. "Eliminate the beasts with one fell swoop, just like we did with the golems?!"

Harry shook his head. "You fail to understand something, Admiral," he explained. "Venati are not from our world—or, rather more accurately, our particular plane of existence. They are, quite literally, demon-beasts, summoned via magical ritual. Even if we wiped out the Venati horde on the ground—and trust me, they _will_ become a horde if we do not take steps to thwart their growth—it would make no discernable impact on their military threat, because as long as the portal that brings them to our plane is sealed, they will keep coming."

"Can't we just blast the thing out of existence?"

Harry shook his head. "Were it so simple," he rued. "No. The only way to seal such a portal is to kill the summoner, or at the very least make him seal it—which is _never_ going to happen, if Riddle is the summoner."

Wolf took a triumphant step forward, his right hand held up in a shaking fist. "So we bomb Hogwarts Castle out of existence!" he declared triumphantly.

Again, Harry shook his head. "If that were a viable possibility, don't you think we would have done so earlier?" he asked, tapping into the chair's keyboard once again. This time, a holographic image of the castle came up, complete with sensory readings. "Observe, Admiral. Though the wards harmful to our ships are gone, as are the barriers preventing us from launching air strikes, the castle itself retains point-blank wards that will essentially negate the effects of anything we throw at it," he explained, observing the readings as he spoke. "A last-ditch defence measure, if you will."

Wolf growled with impatience. "There _has_ to be a way to kill that bastard Riddle!" he protested.

Harry nodded. "There is. We draw him out."

"How?!"

"Three steps, Admiral," he explained. "The first has already been taken, the second is ready to be undertaken at my say-so, and the third will require a great deal of effort from all of us, despite whatever measures I may have put in place to ensure our victory here."

Admiral Wolf looked apologetic. "I apologize, sir, but I still don't quite understand," he admitted. "If the enemy on the ground is as terrifying as you make them out to be, then what hope do we have of defeating them?"

Harry smiled as he brought up a hand and tapped his temple with a finger. "With reason, Admiral," he replied. "The terrifying effect of the Venati is something that takes advantage of our propensity to fear. More effectively, however, their efficiency in killing takes the shape of a particular ability that serves to sow chaos within our ranks."

"Which is?"

"Shape-shifting," came Harry's unexpected response. Wolf reeled back from the revelation.

"You mean to tell me that there could be Venati hidden away in our forces?" he hissed out furiously. "Why wasn't the brass told?!"

Harry fixed Wolf with an incredulous stare. "Admiral, _if_ the Venati happened to replace one of our top officers, why on _earth_ would I consider letting them know that I knew that they were masquerading as Imperial soldiers?" he asked, causing Wolf to become red-faced at the obvious logic.

"But you _do_ know if there are infiltrators, yes?" he asked, getting over his embarrassment. He was torn between relief and apprehension when Harry nodded.

"Indeed I do, Admiral," Harry confirmed. "In fact, not only do I know whether or not there are infiltrators, but also _who_ these infiltrators are," he added, again tapping on some keys.

Wolf looked at him strangely. "If we always knew who they were and _where_ they were, then why not simply eliminate them from the outset?" he asked curiously.

Harry smiled. "I had to give Riddle the illusion that everything was going according to his plan," he explained, still typing. "The best strategy ever, Admiral, is to let your enemy see your next move, and the move after that; or, rather, for them to see the moves they _think_ you're likely to take."

Just then, a clicking noise told Wolf that Harry had opened a comm. channel. Giving him a smile, Harry focused on the holographic projection of Hogwarts Castle as he then spoke. "This is Air Field Marshall Potter," he announced. "I am enacting contingency plan thirteen. I say again, Contingency Plan Thirteen is enacted."

"Contingency plan thirteen, Your Grace?" asked Wolf curiously.

Harry chuckled. "The second step, Admiral."


	49. Chapter XXXXII: The Living Will

_A/N: Warning: this is the single most dialogue heavy chapter I've written thus far. And, quite possibly, one of the most plot significant to the story. For that matter, also the longest, period. - MB  


* * *

Hogwarts Second Gate…_

The fighting at the Second Gate was some of the most pitched defensive actions of its time. Though initially restrained to a mere frontal defence, the gate defenders were soon forced to shift their firepower to cover their rear as well as another dust cloud suddenly came into existence behind them. Fortunately for them, however, the trap-trenches that Neville had ordered dug had been completed well before the frontal attack had begun, and so many of the Venati found themselves confounded by the network of traps that allowed them to become easy pickings for the HMG-equipped defenders.

2,500 soldiers, crammed into a defensive structure supposed to be manned by 500 or so people. Cramped as they were, however, they made it extraordinarily tough for the enemy to reach their lines, as the well-supplied ADST squads had brought with them a wonderful variety of ammunition and weaponry. Whenever the Venati fell into the traps, the HMGs or rifle-bearing troops would then mow them down. The problem was that with every Venati they killed, the trenches would gradually fill up, which made it an impending danger that they would eventually become useless.

The ADST detachment under Captain Lyles took charge of the defence of the rear, holding their own surprisingly well, while Neville himself took charge of the front gate defence. Unlike the rear, however, the front was getting, almost literally, hammered. While there was little risk of the enemy scaling the walls, the constant ramming of the Venati—to a suicidal degree, even—against the gate itself was causing the door to gradually weaken, and already thirty men were stationed right behind the additional barricade works to push against the surprising force of the Venati ramming their bodies against the gate.

Neville swore as he watched another Venati ram itself to death against the gate, adding to a growing pile of corpses at its feet. This couldn't keep happening, or else the gate would eventually give in. Seeing as how the enemy numbers were certainly not decreasing, that made Neville worried.

Turning to the nearest high-ranking soldier within earshot, he yelled, "I want HMG coverage on the gate! Stop letting them through the kill zone!"

The Major in question, however, seemed unimpressed by Neville's exhortations. "We're trying, sir!" he replied hotly, even as he fired two shots wildly into the crowd of Venati at the feet of the wall. "There's just too many for our lads to keep them at bay!"

Neville had the sense to look abashed as he saw and indeed confirmed that his men were frantically trying to shoot down every incoming Venati that approached the wall. While it was clear that the beasts would not be able to scale the wall individually, that didn't mean that they would stop trying, and a few got perilously close to the top. Furthermore, there had been numerous attempts to use the corpses of other Venati to build stacks high enough to allow them to reach the parapets, which indicated a frighteningly ingenious intelligence in them. Of course, these piles were quickly vaporized with a well-placed grenade, but there were numerous close calls.

In the end, the Major's assessment rang true—there was very little the besieged defenders could do to increase their kill count without losing ground somewhere else. This was a problem that Neville could not surmise an answer for. At least, not until he, by chance, glanced at the castle and then felt like smacking himself in the face. He was a mage, for goodness' sake! Plus, he had that little boost that Harry had insisted on giving him.

Holstering his gun, he brought out his wand and then proceeded to roll up his sleeves up to his elbows. When the Major he'd mistakenly berated looked at him askance, however, Neville merely grinned viciously. "Get ready, Major," he warned. "I'm going to give us the breathing space we need!"

Even as he spoke, he raised his wand, pointing it straight forwards. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and wilfully channelled the magic through his body and towards the wand, feeling it accumulate practically on the tip of the wooden instrument. Once he was sure he had accumulated enough—a feeling he calculated by way of how probable it was his wand would explode with anymore magical build-up—he finally opened his eyes, raised his wand, and then swept it across his frame—his right leg sliding back as he bent over, a grin on his face—chanting out, "_EXPULSO!_"

With a mighty flash, a bluish barrier seemed to materialize from the tip of his wand and grew exponentially until it was as long and tall as the gate itself was, sweeping forward relentlessly like a tidal wave. Upon coming into contact with the barrier, the Venati were hauled off their feet and tossed backwards by the raging barrier. It wasn't a point blank thing, either. As the barrier moved forward for at least three dozen feet, the Venati horde was pushed back violently, often crushing several to death under its relentless pace.

When the barrier dissipated, there was a vastly different tactical scenario before the defenders. No longer were they hampered by the pressing numbers; they could now do their utmost best to keep the enemy at bay, and could, in some measure, succeed in doing so. Seizing upon this opportunity, the Major beside Neville grinned viciously before turning to his men and bellowing out orders.

"FIRE!" he roared. "FIRE, FIRE, FIRE! DON'T LET ANY OF THOSE SODDING TOSSERS ANYWHERE NEAR THE GATE!!"

With renewed vigour coming from the sudden decrease in immediate danger, the rampart defenders were quick on the uptake in following the man's orders. With the distinct sound of clicking running all across the ramparts, the soldiers locked in their new ammunition cartridges/belts inside their weapons and proceeded to let loose a hail of bullets that effectively created a border between the Venati and the "danger close" zone next to the gate.

Neville watched with unrestrained glee as his plan—impromptu as it was—worked beautifully. To be honest, it had taken quite a bit from him, but it was something he was now aware he could do several times a day, if it ever became necessary. Looking up at the Major—for Neville was pretty much supporting himself by his knees alone at this point—he grinned victoriously. "Enough space now, Major?" he asked wryly.

The Major grinned in return. "Quite so, Brigadier, quite so."

As the two men were exchanging congratulations, however, one of the soldiers came up to them, looking a little anxious. "Sir!" he cried out, trotting up to them.

Neville turned his head to observe the speaker and recognized him as the scouting sergeant from the vanguard—Willis, he believed the man was called. "Yes, sergeant?" he replied.

He watched the sergeant quickly go into attention and give a crisp salute, which he himself returned sloppily due to his exhaustion. "Sir, the lads and I have been keeping an eye on the tunnel that leads into Hogwarts! We think someone might be coming through!"

Neville groaned. More bad news? Even worse, this could adversely affect their flank. Hell, it wasn't just _could_, it _would_. Giving the Major a long-suffering look, he nodded at Willis even as the Major chuckled. "Alright. Give me a second and we'll go check it out."

"Sir, they could get through any moment now, and we need you to reinforce the blockage!" protested Willis. Neville groaned at the man's insistence, but agreed that this had to be dealt with immediately.

"Alright, alright," he acquiesced reluctantly, his body protesting his every move. "Let's go, then."

Willis nodded and quickly led the way while Neville made to follow, albeit much more slowly. It was glaringly obvious to anyone who looked that Neville was pretty much dead on his feet after that particularly powerful feat of magic, and so it was somewhat admirable that he was still managing to function—even better, to use his magic to seal another threat to the Imperial lines.

For his part, however, the Major just shook his head in amusement and chuckled, all the while keeping a steady eye on his men to make sure there were no problems in keeping the Venati at bay.

* * *

As he walked behind the rear lines, Neville couldn't help but evaluate the performance of both sides of his little last-ditch defence. The "Gate Line," so to speak, was infinitely more fortified than the rear, but had been ironically much closer to being overwhelmed than the rear was, if he was observing things right. The "Rear Line," by contrast, was completely overpowering the Venati onslaught, keeping them very much away from their immediate presence by way of traps and superior firepower. While the Gate Line lacked the former, there was no such excuse for the latter component, as the Gate Line had many more HMG emplacements than the Rear Line.

To his slight amusement and some confusion, Neville also saw several ADST with their helmets on, despite the fact that the Magical Shockwave had completely fried the electronic equipment. Then again, with their visors in place, Neville gathered that they served as good countermeasures against the dust cloud in front of them, which the wind could easily blow into their eyes at any moment.

Neville sighed. Another consideration he might have to deal with through the use of magic. He theorized that if the war didn't end soon, he would end up dried up of all magic! Somehow, just following through that thought, the mental image of himself being sucked into a dry prune popped into his head, making him snort once, though he quickly covered that up, despite the fact that no one could hear him over the gunfire.

It was fortunate, and at the same time quite unfortunate, that the path to the cavern where they had hid after the exhausting climb up the face of the cliff was behind their lines. For one thing, it meant easy access to it, but it also meant that if a sneak attack were to come from there, they'd never see it coming until it was too late. Plus, there was simply not enough manpower to man a permanent, heavily-entrenched defensive position whose sole reason for existence was to watch over a cave. Ironic, considering that they had more people than the gate was _supposed_ to accommodate, but it was still the truth. If they pulled off people from _any_ of the lines, it would only serve to detriment the defence, since the Venati onslaught wasn't tiring _at all_.

Thus, trudging down the path, Neville was calculating the many ways he could shift defenders to cover the road that led up to their positions. The road itself was wide enough to allow only about four adult men to stand shoulder-to-shoulder; and even then, barely so. Typically, this would mean that a bare minimum of soldiers was needed to adequately cover the path, but considering the sheer numbers of enemy beasts involved, Neville doubted that anything short of an actual stone wall, complete with ramparts and sandbagged HMG positions, would actually stop such an attack from this path.

It was at the very entrance of the cave, however, that Neville began to feel a slight discomfort in his stomach. Kind of like his gut was trying to tell him something, but whatever it was, it was muffled by exhaustion. Nodding to Willis, who had stopped inside and turned to look at him somewhat intensively, Neville took a few steps forward.

"Very well, let's see, then," he said, reaching for his wand. At first glance, he could already tell that the blockage seemed to be quite solid still, so he was unaware of what had made Willis think there was any danger of the enemy getting through, but better to be safe than sorry, right?

And then, just as quickly as he had made that assessment, his wand was gone from his hand, slapped away harshly by none other than Willis, who was standing in front of him with a slightly deranged grin.

"What the?" Neville barely got out, before Willis managed to grab onto his uniform. Instincts kicked in for Neville then, and a spin on his right heel allowed him to deliver a blow to Willis' midsection with his right heel, sending the man off him to the side. "Have you lost your _mind_, sergeant?!" he demanded angrily.

And then, Willis did the strangest thing. He started chuckling. And not a nice chuckling, like when a friend laughs at another's joke. Nah, it was more like the chuckling you typically heard the Joker using before he slammed a pencil into someone's face.

"Sssstupid human…" Willis hissed, slowly getting up from the floor, without paying any attention to his wounded side. "Sssstill won't sssee what'sss in front of you…"

Nevermind his previous feeling of unease, this one was off the charts. Hell, even his exhaustion vanished in a second as he realized that he had, unknowingly, walked right into a trap. Even worse, he was friendless and unarmed. Screaming wouldn't do any good, either, due in part to being inside a _cave_, and also because of the continuous gunfight outside. Hell, the assassins around him could basically kill him and walk out without anyone questioning _anything_. His own disappearance could be chalked down to continuous magical incantations to keep the cavern from becoming a third front.

"Riddle pay you off?" he spat, bringing up his two hands to his waist. He might have lost his wand, but he was still adept enough in wandless magic to defend himself, albeit briefly. "Is that it? What did he promise you? Riches? Power? Immortality?"

Again, Willis chuckled, and this time, so did the rest of his scouting force—or what remained of it, he reminded himself. Susan, two other women, and one other man had been reported missing from the group, he remembered. "Is that what happened to Susan?!" he demanded angrily. "Did you sodding _fucks_ kill _my_ Susan?!"

Willis' insane grin did not leave his face. If anything, it seemed to stretch more than humanly possible. "Who knowsss?" he hissed amusedly. "We sssshan't tell!"

And then, Neville understood. Willis and his merry band of traitors suddenly bent forward until they were on all fours, and then their shapes blurred and shifted—and Neville knew he'd been had.

"_Venati_," he spat.

"Pointssss to the man with a brain!" he heard the creature formerly known as Willis say amid animalistic chuckles. "At the very leasssst, his magical core will be delicioussss!"

This was bad. This was very bad. Neville had _no_ idea that Venati were shape-shifters, and, he expected, neither did his men outside. Plus, you know, he was facing _four_ Venati. On his own. Without his wand.

Yeah, he was screwed.

Upon making this conclusion in his head, Neville saw the Willis-Venati creature start his attack, picking up speed in two meters and then lunging at him. One-on-one, Neville could handle, however.

With a grunt, Neville glared at his opponent contemptuously as he ducked, spun on his foot, and kicked the creature in the side. He heard it yelp as it was launched sideways, but also cursed as he then saw it pick itself up, none the worse for wear.

"Oh come _on_," he protested vigorously under his breath. "This is _bullshit_."

Even worse, V-Willis seemed to understand that going mano-a-mano was a _very_ bad idea, and thus nudged his head imperiously towards Neville as a signal to his fellow hellspawn.

"Correction," Neville wryly commented to himself as he watched the four Venati circle him hungrily like a pack of sharks, "_this_ is bullshit."

And then, just as it seemed that the four beasts were about to rush him, he heard the sound of gunfire—and not the kind outside, but instead the kind very close to him. A yelp followed, and as Neville turned to look, he saw one Venati go down—it's head playing the part of an exploding watermelon—while the others seemed either immediately responsive to the attack on their fellow Venati, or simply lunged at Neville, taking advantage of the distraction.

Said Venati was quickly shot down by another shot from Neville's saviour, which he was barely able to distinguish due to the light filtering in from behind the figure at the cave entrance.

"Since when do you swear so much?" asked a female voice which, despite being somewhat muffled by a helmet, Neville would have been brain-dead _not_ to recognize. "I swear, the last time we saw each other, you weren't _nearly_ this potty-mouthed!"

Neville gave a wry grin. "Oh, you know how it is," he commented sarcastically. "You spend a few days with soldier boys, you get shot at, explode a staircase, and generally fight a last-ditch battle for your skin—guy's got to let loose at some point, yeah?"

The woman at the entrance grinned, and only then was Neville able to notice that she wasn't alone. Three more figures were at her flanks. "See now, _that_ is more like you," commented the woman, seemingly ignoring the threat of two still very much alive and dangerous Venati.

"What issss the meaning of thisss?!" V-Willis hissed angrily. "Who daress intrude on our feeding?!"

Another shot rang in the cavern, making Neville wince from the echo, and V-Willis' last remaining cohort was lying on the ground, also dead.

"You talk too much," the woman stated blandly, a smoking pistol sitting in her extended hand.

Neville rolled his eyes, though he kept a wary watch on V-Willis, who was in a particularly aggressive stance to his left. "Let me guess," he said sarcastically. "Harry sent you."

The woman gave him a bright smile. "Knew there was something between those ears of yours!" she back-handily agreed and complimented him simultaneously.

Neville couldn't help the growl coming from his throat. "That brat's always been too clever by half," he muttered. "Not telling anyone his plans, keeping everyone in the bloody dark…"

The smile was wiped off the woman's face. "Now you know how it feels, Neville," she told him seriously.

Neville had the decency to look embarrassed. "I know, I know…"

V-Willis, however, was not a happy camper. There was nothing quite so infuriating as being ignored by one's enemies, after all, and even more so when one was part of a race that basically made it its life mission to consume all things in its path.

"Ignore me, will you?!" he raged, scratching at the stone floor angrily with his front paws. "I'll sssshow you!"

With that, he burst into action, lunging straight for the woman, though it was one of the other people around her that lunged into action first. The person to the woman's immediate right suddenly got in the way of the lunge and brought up a combat, pump-action shotgun, which she aimed rather deliberately at the Venati's face.

"This is for Sergeant Willis," was all Neville heard the enraged feminine voice say, shortly before a loud blast signalled the end of V-Willis.

Neville couldn't help but make a face at the gore. He wasn't particularly weak-stomached about this, but it served to lighten the mood some, which was a perfectly natural way to cope with near-death experiences, he found.

"Yuck," he said. "Hellspawn brain bits."

"Not really the time for horsing around, Neville," the woman at the forefront of the execution squad reprimanded him. "We've got a fight to deal with outside."

Neville waved that away, instead choosing to sit down against a rock and finally let his aching limbs rest. The Major on the parapets and Captain Lyles had everything quite well in hand, in his opinion. "That comes later," he told them severely. "Now, _Susan_, mind telling me how this near-miraculous return of yours occurred?" he asked, all traces of humour gone from his face. "And I'm going to guess that the murder squad behind you are the missing elements from my vanguard scouts?"

Susan grinned inside her ADST helmet as she hoisted the armour off her head and tucked it underneath her left arm, revealing wavy, chin-length hair where a cascade had once been.

"You cut you hair," Neville noticed intelligently, causing Susan to roll her eyes.

"Oh, _sure_, notice the hair first. No, 'why are you dressed as a Shock Trooper, Susan?' or, 'Susan, why didn't you tell me you were alive?'" she mocked him. "Seriously, Neville; priorities."

Neville scoffed. "Priorities, you say. I've got a thousand questions—" he noticed her stare, "—a hundred questions…fine, fine, maybe ten questions I'm dying to ask you, but unless you've been staring at a wall all day, I'm a bit exhausted from _single-handily _saving the Gate Line by sweeping the enemy away with magic. Plus, attacked by Venati, remember?"

Susan rolled her eyes. "Wimp."

"Tell you what, darling—next time we need a massive magical barrier to keep the enemy away, _you_ do it," Neville snapped back.

Behind the two, the remaining three members of Susan's squad were watching with barely veiled amusement beneath their helmets. One of them leaned over to the other two and even asked,

"Are they always like this?"

The feminine voice was answered by another such female voice. "Don't know. Never saw them together," the other woman admitted. "Though, my money's on this being some sort of weird, cathartic foreplay."

"Hilliard…" warned the seemingly only male member of the team.

"Fine, fine…"

And then, right before their eyes, Susan launched herself forward and tackled the Brigadier backwards, followed by some intense hugging and kissing that made all three other people blush underneath their helmets and look away.

"…and there's the foreplay part validated," said Hilliard amidst sniggers.

"Hilliard…"

The woman pouted inside her helmet. "You're such a prude, O'Hara."

The other woman, the missing Naomi Porter that had been declared dead by the impostors, merely rolled her eyes at her two comrades. Instead of commenting, however, she turned her attention to the dead carcasses of the Venati, and her gaze saddened.

"I can't believe the sergeant's dead," she mumbled, barely audible if not for the intercom inside the helmet.

She felt a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Hey, just be glad we found you when we did," Hilliard said, trying to comfort her. "If we hadn't, you wouldn't have been able to shoot that…_thing_ in the face right now."

"Small comfort," opined O'Hara. "Willis, Jameson, O'Neill, Miles…that's a lot of friends gone."

The man flinched as he saw Hilliard's helmet snap towards him, feeling the glare rather than seeing it. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Susan and Neville, however, were in their own little world, making up for lost time and such. Being humans, however, they did eventually need to come back up for air, even if all they did was grin stupidly at each other.

"I missed that," said Neville with a grin.

"Can't say I disagree," agreed Susan.

"So, really, what _did_ happen to you?" he asked curiously, well aware that they were not exactly in the most opportune of situations for making up for lost time.

Susan sighed, reluctantly ceding to the fact that their playtime would have to be postponed until after the battle. Pushing herself off of him, she got up and turned away from him, putting her helmet back on as she did. Thus, when she started speaking, her voice was slightly altered by the helmet's speakers. "Hilliard, O'Hara, and I caught up to the scouting team well before you did," she told him. "From what we could see, they had separated to better cover territory, though we could only see Porter missing from the group. We were going to call out to them when they entered the valley entrance when they were suddenly ambushed by the Venati."

"Why didn't you help them?" he asked, half-curious, half-astonished at her inaction.

"We tried," she retorted. "Or, rather, we were about to, but it was over in a matter of seconds. The Venati easily tore through their uniforms like it was paper, and before we knew it, they were dead. It took a damn lot not to give away our position then. O'Hara had to restrain Hilliard from screaming."

Neville glanced at the group of three ADST by the cavern entrance and saw one of them look away, while the other stoically nodded in affirmation.

"We tracked the group's camp easily enough, though," continued Susan. "It was just a matter of extrapolating their base from the path they had taken down to the valley entrance. The problem was, since we had to keep away from sight, in case the beasts saw us again, we had to take the long way around. So, imagine my surprise when we saw Sergeant Willis and the rest of the killed scouts strut up to the camp, live and well."

"The Venati that ambushed them," Neville filled in knowingly. Susan shrugged.

"I've got no way of knowing that. Honestly, one Venati looks the same as another. What I _did_ know, however, was that something was wrong if someone had decided to masquerade as a dead man. So, we quietly infiltrated the outskirts of the camp, where we were hoping to find out what was going on, when O'Hara spotted Porter hiding up a tree."

"Did she know?" asked Neville.

Susan shook her head. "No, she just adopted that position in order to better keep an eye on the camp while staying in cover. It was sheer dumb luck, however, that we managed to get to her at all. Hilliard volunteered to sneak up the tree, since she's the most agile of us, and get her, which took a lot of skill without giving away our position."

"And after that?" pressed Neville. "Susan, you didn't just evade a Venati ambush, you also happened to fall off the bloody map! What happened?!"

Susan shrugged. "We made away as quickly as possible, stopping only after we'd reached the column—though not the head of it. It so happened that we made contact with Captain Lyles first, and he patched us through to the _Invincible_, where orders were given to get us in the ship. So, even before the First Legion detachment disappeared from your camp, we were given a Portkey and sent to the ship, where we were debriefed by Harry and told exactly what's what. Then, he gave us a choice."

One of the women at the cavern entrance scoffed. "Some choice."

Susan smirked in her helmet. "He offered us two choices," she repeated. "One, we sit out for the rest of the fight, since he figured we earned it for giving him the vital piece of intel that was the Venati's presence on the field," she rose one finger of her gloved hand to reinforce her point. "Or two, we get an immediate promotion to the First Legion, and get our revenge on the Venati by becoming part of his ADST unit."

Neville looked at her askance. "What does the ADST unit have to do with Venati?" he asked. "Aren't they just highly mobile shock troops?"

Susan shook her helmeted head. "The Atmospheric Drop Shock Trooper unit was created with one goal in mind—countering the Venati threat," she explained.

"We make the bad things go dead," piped in Hilliard, earning herself a thwack on the helmet from Porter. "Ow!"

Susan rolled her eyes. "Quite," she nonetheless agreed. "The Venati threat was seen by Harry to pose a more pressing danger than the golems, as he had fought these himself in India—"

"He _did_?"

Susan kicked his shin lightly. "Yes, now let me finish!" she reprimanded him when he yelped. "Anyway, Harry knew that the Venati needed to be dealt with through means other than conventional weaponry, as they were agile and quick. Thus, he ordered Bill to find some way of creating a material light-weight enough to protect his chosen soldiers from physical attack of _any_ kind."

"Why not equip the entire army with this material?" demanded Neville. "We could have saved thousands of lives!"

Susan fixed her ex/current boyfriend with a glare. "You think Bill and Harry didn't know that?" she asked rhetorically. "Unfortunately, even with the formula in hand, it takes time to create the alloy," she banged a fist on her chest plate, making it give out a solid sound. "Hear that? It acts like ceramic, sounds like ceramic—hell, it _feels_ like ceramic, but it's not. This baby could take an AK head on and survive the meeting."

"What's that got to do with Venati?"

Susan grinned. "An AK is supposed to be _the_ ultimate death-dealer, remember? If _any_ armour we make can be made to not only resist an AK, but also not _explode_ on impact, then even Venati claws can't get through it."

Neville's eyes widened. "An entire company's worth of Venati-proof soldiers?!" he breathed.

Susan shook her head. "An entire _Legion_'s worth of Venati-proof soldiers," she corrected. From outside the cave, a growing din could be heard even over the sound of bullets. "In fact, if I'm not mistaken, that should be our reinforcements right now."

She looked over at Hilliard. "Private Hilliard, go see what the hell's going on!" she ordered.

The woman in question quickly saluted Susan before dashing outside momentarily. She was gone for about five minutes before she came right back, practically skipping her way in. "Right in one, Colonel!" she confirmed. "The First is coming!"

* * *

_HMIS Invincible_

"Sir, we've got reports from both General Sulu's forces and the Second Gate that the Venati infiltrators have been eliminated!" reported one of the bridge crewmen as he juggled with the different buttons and knobs on his console. "ADST forces have successfully purged our ranks and are holding the front lines."

"The First Legion reports green readiness in the prep rooms, sir," announced another crewman.

"Vehicle status?" demanded Wolf as he made an electronic signature on an electronic pad he was just handed by a crewman.

The team of five crewmen that were huddled together around the hangar communications panels seemed to exchange messages in hushed tones for a few seconds before they all reported in.

"Hangar One is ready for deployment."

"Hangar Two, same."

"Hangar Three, same."

"Hangar Four, same."

"Hangar Five, same."

"All deployment hangars are green light for vehicle drops," summed up the lead crewman before he reached over and activated another communication line. "The Duchess also reports green readiness, sir."

Wolf turned his head to look at Harry. "I guess that's your cue?" he suggested.

Harry nodded, though he made no move to leave his chair. Instead, he kept his head propped up on his left fist while he tapped his right-hand fingers on his chair arm, a pensive look on his face as he studied the battlefield hologram.

"Most curious," he said slowly.

"What is?" asked Wolf as he handed back yet _another_ electronic pad to a passing crewman.

"Riddle," answered Harry simply. "He's not used the castle to send up another one of those catastrophic magical shockwaves again."

Wolf snorted. "Bit of a breather, if you ask me," he said bluntly. "Our shields were shot to hell from that last one."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Harry, his right hand shooting upwards in a show of frustration. "Everything is thus far going to plan, but even so, Riddle shouldn't be wasting the opportunity to use such an effective weapon! It's not his style!"

Wolf shrugged. "Perhaps there's a hitch in the process?" he suggested. "maybe he can't channel that much magic _and_ summon the Venati?"

Harry waved away that explanation. "Of course he can't. That's not the point," Harry countered quickly. "He has three lieutenants, however, who together _can_ amass that amount of magic, however. Seeing as how they're not on the field, there's no reason for them not to be using the castle as a magic channel."

"Perhaps they wish to lull us into a sense of complacency?" Wolf offered half-heartedly, frowning as he observed another pad in his hands and shook his head at the crewman next to him. "Check the numbers on this report again."

"Problems?"

Wolf shook his head. "No; someone just fudged up a report with a typo," he replied, before turning his attention to the impending assault on the Venati forces. "Your Grace, perhaps the reason that Riddle has been unable to use the castle as a weapon again is because _he_'s not the one powering it. Maybe it's become far more complicated when there are numerous power sources."

Harry nodded, showing his acceptance of that possibility. "If that's so, Admiral, then we need to deploy immediately before he has the chance of using that while we're in mid-air," he concluded as he pushed himself onto his feet and walked towards the exit. "You have the bridge, Admiral."

Wolf saluted crisply. "Aye, aye, sir," he replied, before looking to his own XO. "XO, mark in the log, I have the bridge."

"Aye, aye, sir."

* * *

_Hangar Bay One…_

Harry was definitely amused when he reached his destination. Apparently, someone working the Hangar communications systems was either a Yank volunteer or a fan of Creedence Clearwater Revival, because he could hear the speakers blasting out the band's all-time song, "Fortunate Son."

Sure, it was an anti-war song, for the most part, but then any soldier who said he _wasn't_ anti-war was either lying, or a psychopath.

Either way, it provided an amusing ambient sound over the din of the troops preparing to deploy to the ground. Unlike their fellow brothers in the ADST contingent, the rest of the First Legion wasn't about to mass deploy via drop pods—that would be suicide now that the Venati have come to the forefront.

Instead, they were going in via the same transport ships that had evacuated Dumbledore. Hundreds of them were now lined up throughout the four deployment hangars, their rough look clashing distinctly with the much smoother outlines of the Imperial fighters that had made it back to the ship's protective shields before the MS 5 hit.

Harry couldn't help but wince when he saw how many fighters were missing from their deployment racks. The losses from the MS 5 had been…catastrophic, to say the least. Barely 1 out of every 3 fighters deployed during this battle had made it back. Only the dragon squads had survived without much casualties, although the shockwave did serve to give the younger dragons the human equivalent of a brain aneurysm.

The worst part was that the fighters and dragon handlers probably had the easiest part of this fight. _They_ certainly didn't have to deal with the Venati on a face-to-face basis. Even now, years after his own personal _tête-à-tête_ with one, he dreaded facing such a creature in combat again.

But he had to. This was what he had driven to practically all his adult life. He couldn't just sit this one out _and_ justify the innumerable atrocities he caused over the years to himself. There was simply no other way.

Harry gave a practiced smile as he was greeted by the members of the First Legion, all of whom had fought by his side from the very beginning of his personal crusade. They understood, even if he never told them. They had seen the very pits of hell and come back as changed as he was. No one else understood. No one else _could_.

He smiled lovingly up at his beautiful wife as she met him on the ramp to his designated transport. Standing there in her assassin robes—undoubtedly with some of the ADST body armour underneath—she was just as stunning as when he'd married her. She was the sole anchor to reality, the very reason he had orchestrated everything. His daughter had come afterwards, and while he loved her to death as well, Ginny had been his inspiration.

Taking her hand in his, he gave her a reassuring squeeze as she looked at him curiously, seemingly feeling the unease that raged within him. He couldn't tell her, not even right there as she stood by him, ready to go down into the most hellish fight she'd ever face in her life. He couldn't let her know what he'd done, what he'd learned, what he'd chosen to do. Love her as he did, he still couldn't trust her to understand his reasons.

She was his wife, but she was not his companion on the lonely throne that one sat in when one had all the information. She had tasted normality, and peace. She was forever tainted by that experience.

Even as he turned to give his—probably—final speech to his men, he could not resist thinking about the measures he had taken to ensure that his legacy was not forgotten. It was not his daughter, nor was the recipient his comrade Admiral Wolf. It was not Ginny, nor his parents. Not his brother and sister, nor his brothers-in-law. Not his Queen, nor a simple commoner.

Ironically, he handed his legacy over to the one person he could not bring himself to stop hating or distrusting. Why? Well, because only someone who has faced the unbearable loneliness of knowledge could understand what his legacy meant.

It was history-making, he knew. Whoever had his hands on his legacy also possessed the ability to make or break the Empire. It was his living will.

He just hoped Dumbledore would understand it fully.

His speech was done now. The men were ready. The time was upon them.

Loudly, the ramp came up, and sealed the transports for departure.

* * *

_HMIS Invincible Med-Bay 1…_

Dumbledore looked at his small audience with a grave look. Minutes earlier, he had been handed a small disc that he instantly recognized as a holographic recording device. Even stranger, the messengers had been one of Potter's closest aides, who herself admitted to being ignorant of the disc's contents before leaving him. She had given him no other instructions and had then merely left.

Curious, he had begun the recording for a few seconds before quickly turning it off and rewinding it. This was huge. Immense, even. He needed his closest council with him. None of the more emotionally-invested members of the former Order of the Phoenix, however. He needed the rational minds.

Thus, he had his nurse call down Hermione Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Frank Longbottom, and Mad-Eye Moody. He would have summoned Severus as well, but he had a feeling the man already knew, as did the young Malfoy heir.

The three men and one woman he had called were now sitting around his hospital bed, an anxious look on two of them, while the other two were more gruffly curious.

"Well?" asked Moody. "What's all this about, then, Albus?"

Hermione seemed about to round on the man for so rudely demanding answers from a recovering patient, but Dumbledore waved her off. "I have received a most interesting package from mister Potter just now," he told them. "I believed that you should all see it at the same time I did."

"You haven't even previewed it?" asked Frank with raised eyebrows. "That's…reserved of you."

"I admit, I did sample the first few seconds," conceded Dumbledore. "But that was all. I have no idea what the rest says."

"Why would the Duke, the man who hates _you_ the most, send you a message, Albus?" asked Arthur worriedly. "Especially now, after the destruction of Hogwarts grounds?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "I have honestly no idea, Arthur, my boy. That is why I thought you should be allowed to see the contents as well."

Hermione, her focus now entirely on the metallic disk on Dumbledore's lap, looked somewhat excited and curious. "I admit, I'm interested in seeing what the Duke has to say," she told the other men, who all nodded shortly afterwards.

Satisfied that he had a willing audience, Dumbledore frowned as he observed the disc and hesitantly pressed the button he thought was the one he had pressed earlier to activate it. To his fortune, it was, and seconds later the image of Harry Potter, standing less than ten inches tall, had materialized on the disc. Avidly, the five leaned in to better hear what the image had to say.

"_Log date, June 7__th__, 2008_," the hologram stated clearly. "_First entry. Marked: Final_."

"June seventh?" commented Hermione. "That was the day before the offensive was launched against Hogwarts!"

Dumbledore nodded, but hushed her all the same. She had the grace to look embarrassed for the seeming triviality.

"_I am Harry James Potter, Duke of Halifax. This…this is my living will_," continued the hologram, hesitating only once. Everyone gasped.

"_Tomorrow, we begin the final step," he continued, ignoring the gasps. "The Imperial Fleet has been assembled where ordered, and those elements unneeded for this campaign are already sweeping the globe for the remnants of our enemies._"

"_It should feel like a weight being lifted from my shoulders, or so everyone tells me, but it sure as hell doesn't feel like it. If anything, it feels like an anvil weighing me down—increasing in weight with every passing second,_" he stopped to chuckle ruefully and pass a nervous hand through his messy hair. "_God, listen to me now. I sound like one of those so-called emo kids, if my vernacular is correct_."

"It is," Hermione added in softly, catching no one's attention as she did so.

"_The truth is, if the general wisdom holds up, I guess it's been a burden so hard to bear because I've told no one about it," _Harry continued_. "Well, if that's true, consider this me sharing_."

He laughed again. "_God, I hope that's you listening at the other end, Ginny. I don't think I could ever face anyone else if they heard me talking like this_," he joked about, a boyish smile on his face. "_Even more so, because everything I've done, everything I'm about to confess, I've done for you_."

Arthur couldn't help but glow with some measure of fatherly approval at this honest display of affection from his estranged son-in-law. The other men, too, seemed to be impressed with Harry's loyalty to his wife.

"_I guess I should start at the beginning, yeah?_" Harry said, scratching the back of his head anxiously. "_In that case, I suppose everything started in India, in 1995. Remember that month I suddenly vanished into thin air?_"

"I do," mumbled Arthur. "Ginny was inconsolable. We never did find out why."

"_Well, the truth is, I died._"

Even Dumbledore couldn't contain the shock he felt at this enormous pronouncement. It was only when they realized the recording had kept going on that he stopped it and rewound it to the exact moment where Harry made his terrible announcement and kept it there.

"What does he mean, he _died_?!" all but screeched Hermione as she stood up suddenly.

"This is…unexpected," agreed Frank, his arms crossed and his burrow furrowed in thought. "Perhaps we should listen more, see if he elaborates on this."

"Y-Yes, that would be most wise. I agree," said Dumbledore shakily before turning the recording back on. Hologram Harry didn't seem the least aware of their shock and kept going as he had on that day.

"_Guess that scared you, huh?_" he said with a rueful smile. "_Well, sorry, but it's the truth. I did die. For a few minutes, I'm told. A creature called a Venati spiked me in the back just after I thought I'd killed the blasted bugger. Most painful thing I've ever felt, let me tell you. Spent a month in recovery for it._"

"That explains his absence," commented Moody.

"_But if I'm alive, why tell you at all, right? I'm guessing that's what you're thinking, Gin. Oh, and by the way, I'm just assuming that's you on the other side. Much less embarrassing that way._"

"_I'm telling you, Gin, because something changed. The Venati changed me. Not in a psychological sense, but in a real, __physical__ sense_," he explained. "_But I'll get to that a bit later. For now, rest assured that I'm still me, and I still love you with all my heart_," he said with a soft smile. "_But now, back on topic, yeah? I died, recovered a month in India, and during that time, I was left with a lot of free time on my hands. So, like any normal person would after having a near-death experience with an unknown force, I researched the hell out of it._"

Harry looked pained now. "_You don't understand how hard it was __not__ to look into them, Gin. The Venati were haunting my every dream. If I closed my eyes, I could see the one that killed me. If I ate, the food would suddenly turn into blood—my blood. A rustle in a hospital bush made me jump and scream. It wasn't physically changing, of course, but mentally speaking, I was losing it, and the Venati were at fault. And I wanted to know why._"

He crossed his arms now, looking dead serious. "_I used the down time to ask for books on known Magical creatures and found nothing. I looked into Dark Ritual books and found even less. I couldn't understand why no one had ever heard of any creature known as the Venati. Hell, even Command seemed reluctant to admit they existed, and even then only because I was backed up by what little was left of the expedition army. Of course, this apparent black hole of information wasn't nearly enough to stop me from looking into the Venati, so the moment I was released from the hospital, I put in a transfer for Italy, since the name sounded like Latin to me. It was._"

"Venati…that means Hunter, doesn't it?" Hermione asked Dumbledore for confirmation. The old man had to think for a moment before nodding.

"_Venati. The Hunters_," confirmed Harry. "_At the time, I couldn't fathom why the Venati had used such a human designation for their species. Now, I figure they kept it from one of their earliest incursions into our world, when the Romans named them such._"

"Incursions?" mumbled Moody interestedly. "That implies they've been around more than once."

Hologram Harry shrugged his shoulders. "_In the next few days, everyone will come to see the Venati, but they'll all think this is the first time they've come onto our plane. The First Legion and I know better. The Venati haven't just come to our world twice, but hundreds of times. Ever since magic was practiced, they have come here._"

"_At first, it wasn't even humanity's fault. Records from Roman times indicate that some poor sap would sometimes cause a summoning portal to open if consumed by rage and other darker feelings. It would be a complete accident, one that would rectify itself quickly upon the person's realization of what they'd unleashed, or their death, but it did happen. As time went on, however, they realized that there was a direct correlation between the ability to use magic, and the presence of the Venati._"

Harry raised one finger then. "_That was my first terrible discovery. Venati are drawn to worlds with magic_," he said seriously, stunning his unseen audience. "_They are multi-dimensional creatures who feed and reproduce on magic. The reason their numbers are so immense is due to their consuming of entire worlds already. This was confirmed in 200 AD, when a team of mages successfully captured one and fed it a magic-capable slave. The captured Venati then split into two in a process very much like mitosis, and was able to escape its cage with its partner. They were thankfully put down almost immediately._"

"Mitosis?" asked Dumbledore as he paused the recording. Hermione nodded.

"It's something that simpler organisms are capable of doing," she explained. "Asexual reproduction, in its simplest form. One could also, I suppose, call it a form of natural self-cloning."

The men around her paled at the thought and returned their attention to the recording.

"_One of the researchers, a man I know only by the name of Marcus, postulated that we were not the first world that the Venati encountered due to the captured Venati's hissed taunts—the same type I suffered through in India while the creature toyed with me. He managed to weed out an important fact from the Venati during his research, one that forever put me on the path I am now on_," he explained before taking a deep breath, as though steadying himself before giving a terrible announcement. "_When Venati find a world with magic, they do not rest until everything on that world is consumed. Unfortunately, that means we've come to the attention of those who would see our species eradicated to satiate their hunger._"

"Merlin's beard!" breathed Arthur in horror.

Harry continued. "_It gets worse. According to Marcus, no world has ever managed to repel an all-out Venati assault. The only case of survivors, he claims the Venati said, was that of a civilization which was able to fly into space, thereby guaranteeing that the Venati could not follow._ _We, unfortunately, do not have that luxury._"

"Thus the Airships…" Hermione said with growing understanding. "I get it now! Making the Airships was more than just a military decision, don't you see?" she told the group. "It was an escape! A way to keep humanity out of Venati reach!"

"_The Venati have since learned, however_," Harry continued, effectively taking the wind out of Hermione's proverbial sails. "_They will not make the same mistake again. They are intelligent creatures, capable of adapting to practically any situation they face, and they have a unique physiology that allows them to effectively hunt down any species ever created."_

"_Armed with such knowledge, what could I do but stare in horror?_" continued Harry, looking more and more distressed. _"It was as though everything I had found was prophesising the end of the human race! Of you, Ginny! Was there no solution? No weapon forged by man that could end their threat? Was I doomed to know where we were all collectively headed and still do nothing but stand by while it happened?!"_

Dumbledore then felt something he never thought he would for the young man—sympathy. Genuine sympathy. The look of utter torment on Harry's face at that moment really rammed in the heavy burden the young man had been forced to carry.

"_It drove me __mad__, Ginny. Even on duty, I couldn't get the idea of the world being consumed by the Venati out of my head! Every house, or building, or even just the rolling plains would become dead and burnt out to me. Happy families and couples would haunt my vision as broken cadavers—food for the hellish creatures I had faced in India._"

Harry had now placed his face in his hands, his figure bent forwards as though he was going to retch. "_I hope you forgive me, my love,_" he then said softly. "_Because in my madness, I found the answer to the problem. The most ignoble one, to be sure, but the answer all the same. I couldn't just let anyone know what I had found. They wouldn't understand! They would think it the mad ramblings of a traumatized soldier! They would have locked me up and thrown away the key! I had to do something, and I had no time to flesh out alternative plans!"_

Harry straightened up and clasped his hands behind his back. "_Peace through superior firepower,_" he enunciated clearly. "_I understood then. If the Venati had the numbers, then I would obliterate them through superior military strength. But the UK didn't have the numbers to do this. The Imperial Army at the time was a laughable force of a few thousands. Britain could not do it alone. I needed allies. I needed soldiers. I needed…_" he trailed off for a moment before taking another deep breath.

"_I needed the Empire._"

Dumbledore paused the recording again, stunned by what he'd heard so far. His companions were similarly struck dumb.

"After all these years…" Hermione whispered, looking on the verge of tears. "…no _wonder_ he hates us!"

"What have we done?" exclaimed Dumbledore in horror.

* * *

_Imperial Troop Transport A-5_

"_Touchdown in ten minutes. Prepare for hostile surface conditions."_

Harry sat passively in his seat, the metallic safety bar lowered down onto him to keep him from falling due to turbulence or enemy fire. His arms were crossed and his eyes were shut as he awaited the moment they landed. Unlike his First Legion soldiers, Harry was not wearing ADST armour. He didn't need it.

He wasn't being arrogant, either. The truth of the matter was, the Venati would also sense something different about him the moment they began combat. He would be their main target, because he would also be the most dangerous one as well as the hardest to kill.

He calmly opened his eyes then and extracted his left hand from his crossed arms. Staring at it calmly, he watched as the rough, pale skin suddenly began glistening a metallic hue, only for it to disappear just as quickly when he tucked it back under his right arm.

There was a reason he was the most dangerous man alive.

* * *

"_People will probably get it wrong for the coming centuries_."

Meanwhile, Dumbledore and his cohorts had reactivated the hologram, torn between eagerness to listen for more information, and shame from what they realized they had done.

"_The Empire was not the end I was seeking. It has always been a simple means to a greater end. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that it was already in place, I probably would have used any global system I could find, such as the United Nations, to bring about global unification. When I first realized what the Venati were capable of, and how woefully unequipped we were to deal with them, I realized that it was impossible to stop them if countries had to singularly deal with them. The concept of the nation-state ceased to be a logical impediment. It became an obstacle. The nation-state had to be destroyed and replaced with Empire if humanity was to stand together against the Venati._"

Harry then surprisingly snorted derisively. "_Of course, there will be detractors. Peace-lovers and spineless fools who would argue that consent would have been a better form of unification. That if all the world knew what we were dealing with, they would ultimately unite. Hogwash,_" he spat hatefully. "_Even if everyone accepted my warning, do you really think they'd have bowed their heads to a global institution? Hell no! There would be bickering over leadership, petty politics, and even dissent. Some would give up altogether, preferring to step aside and watch the world burn! Others would become traitors, conspiring with the Venati in the pathetic hope that they would be spared! They don't understand! They __can't__ understand! The Venati don't negotiate! They kill! They burn! They consume!_"

Harry's rant slowed down eventually, his holographic figure breathing heavily as he got over ten years of pent-up anger out into the open. "_Even worse were those blasted mages in the Ministry of Magic!_" he raged. "_Myopic, blundering fools! They refused to back off, to submit to the greater good, and for what?! The right to become a nation of hermits?! Every time they dropped the ball, it was time lost that I could have used to set the world up for combat-readiness against the Venati! And that fool, __Dumbledore__! Always with his eyes to the sheer bloody sky, that one! With his uppity morality and preachiness—why can't he seen that there are more dangerous things out there than his stupid obsession over the metaphorical battle of Light versus Dark?_"

Throughout his cathartic rant, Harry's holographic expression seemed to become more and more haunted with every passing moment. "_He has no idea—none at all, of the real enemy, and what's worse, he doesn't want to. __None__ of them do. As long as they can attribute it to Light or Dark, they live a life of meaningless existence, with their heads buried in the sand while the rest of us fight the inevitable tide._"

"_I couldn't let them bring down everything I've worked so hard to achieve, Ginny_," he continued. "_Couldn't let them bollocks everything up just as we were about to achieve total dominance over the Magical world! The world was supposed to watch as Project Archangel put the Empire back on the map, and then bow their heads in submission before our superior firepower! The coup, the war—none of it was supposed to happen!_" he railed. "_If it wasn't for the damned mages, if it weren't for the damn Council of Death!_"

Hermione was openly sobbing now, despite her best attempts to rein the unbidden emotions in. "What have we done?" she sobbed, rocking herself back and forth. "What have we done?"

Dumbledore stayed silent, as did the other men. There was truthfully nothing they could say at this point that could justifiably calm the distraught young woman.

"_The Council…_" Harry continued, somehow managing to rein in his own despair. "_…the Council. Yes, that was something important I found out. They weren't supposed to exist. They were an anomaly—completely outside my plans and predictions. The Death Eaters should have scattered—should have remained splintered with the disappearance of their master. Instead, out of nowhere, this Council appears? Too convenient. So, of course, I dug deeper, trying to find out where they came from. I did_," he declared darkly. "_And when I did, I had them all killed._"

"_As you've probably guessed, the Council of Death was the work of the Venati_," he explained, again shocking his unseen audience dumb. "_Not Venati themselves, of course; I would have detected the opening of such portals. No, they were the work of the Venati indirectly. They had sought out the most malleable of Death Eaters and whispered in their minds until the fools believed the voices to be their own minds. They were directed by the Venati in order to provide a conduit for their arrival. It was the perfect arrangement. The Venati, through the Council, would have access to thousands, and later millions of lives ready to die for them—all of them highly trained fighters. These would, in turn, engage my own forces and we would deplete each other until the Venati would meet minimal opposition to their inevitable invasion._"

Harry took a deep breath and reached seemingly outside the hologram for something, before his hand returned with a glass of water, which he avidly drank. Giving a gasp of relief, he then proceeded to put away the glass before continuing. "_The coup was the single most devastating blow they could have delivered to me at the time. Everything I had worked for was, in an instant, robbed from me. It was devastating. The sheer losses of life, the idea of losing mum, dad, and my siblings. The idea of losing __you__…it damned near killed me. Even worse was the realization that we were now completely open to Venati invasion. There was nothing in place anymore to protect us. As far as I knew, the Venati had won. I…I gave up._"

"I had no idea…" breathed Dumbledore.

Harry seemed to straighten up then. He wiped his face with his sleeve and got back into a cocky stance. "_Of course, that lasted only a short while. After I went through the usual motions of grief, I realized that giving up was exactly what the Venati wanted, and so I decided to give them as much grief as I could in revenge for what had been taken from me. I thus created the NBLF with the intention of propping myself up as the eventual leader of a united world,_" he admitted, giving his unseen audience a somewhat cocky grin. "_That's right. You heard me. There was a time when 'Loyal Harry Potter' had dreams of sitting on the Imperial throne. Damn near got to do so, too._"

"_Remember the Conclave of Imperial Brethren? That was my idea. Or rather, part of my plan. By leading by example, I made sure that the world would be eventually split up among strongmen and warlords—the strongest of which I would then invite into the Conclave, and slowly work into assimilating them. Most importantly, however, was the need for someone else to bring up the idea of all out war on non-Imperial holdings. I couldn't do so; it would immediate alienate the more freedom-loving of the warlords, like McDonald and O'Connor. So, naturally, I had to let the fallout from such a plan to fall on someone of aggressive reputation, and Tybalt filled that role __wonderfully__,_" he said with a smirk. "_Of course, it probably helped that some of my raids diverted the Yanks' attention from my own holdings to his. We were still warlords, after all, and we couldn't trust each other all that much._"

Harry looked frustrated then. "_Of course, everything changed after the American Offensive. When we found the Shadow Heir, I had my own doubts, to be completely honest. After all, I had already put into work the plan to make my own ascension to the throne possible. Hell, even if I didn't want to take it for myself, I at least was about to accrue enough influence to basically be able to nominate __anyone__ to take it legitimately. With the Shadow Child's survival, however, that threw a wrench into the plan, to my utter frustration,_" he admitted. "_The old plan wouldn't work anymore, you see._"

Dumbledore paused it then as Arthur seemed about to explode with a question. "Yes, Arthur?" he asked politely.

"I don't understand!" exclaimed the Weasley patriarch. "If he'd been setting himself up as the next King or Emperor, or whatever, why let the Shadow Child take it away from him?" he asked in confusion. "He certainly proved himself ruthless enough to take other, more drastic actions!"

"It's simple," interjected Hermione, showing an amazing ability to understand the Duke's inner workings. Even she seemed surprised by how simple it all really was. "Can't you remember? When the Duke of Halifax was leader of the NBLF, the main thing about him was his loyalty to the British throne. If he opposed the succession after finding the Shadow Child, he would have lost the support of pretty much the entire NBLF and the other Loyalist factions."

Rather than speculate, however, Dumbledore simply turned the recording back on, and hologram Harry unfroze himself to continue his speech.

"_With the Shadow Child revealed, and not by my own hand, there was little choice in the matter. My own forces had stayed with me partially out of personal loyalty, but also partially because of their own loyalty to the British throne, combined with a desire of bloody vengeance. To oppose the succession would have been political and military suicide,_" he stated simply, confirming Hermione's logic. "_So instead, I took her in, and made sure to be the most influential member of her entourage. I didn't just want a puppet on the throne—I wanted someone as ruthless as I needed Earth's leader to be in order to efficiently stamp out the Venati threat. Someone who wouldn't need mollycoddling and shy away from the idea of glassing continents, if need be."_

"This is all very…cold of him," Frank opined, having stayed silent for most of the recording up until now. "He's been playing half the world like an unseen puppet master."

Dumbledore nodded. "Yet, there is an elegance and adaptability to it that cannot go without admiration," he stated. "Lesser men would have collapsed under the strain of all these changing events, but it just seems to goad mister Potter on."

"_The greater good demanded that a Queen of steel sit on the Imperial throne, and I delivered,_" Harry then said vehemently. "_I took a raped, beaten, and traumatized girl and forged her into a weapon against the Venati. I took the mismatched forces of three of the most powerful military factions in the world and turned them into an army. With almost one swift stroke, I undid all the damage that the Death Eaters and those blasted mages from the Order had done in 1998,_" he declared triumphantly. "_Of course, things only got better from then on. I found you, my sweet Ginny, and my family. I found a daughter I never knew I had, and rebuilt the world to my image. I took a decadent, splintered world and __forced__ it together through steel and __purified__ it by fire._"

"_We are now almost ready, my love,_" he said with growing excitement. "_In a few days, we will have begun the offensive on Hogwarts; the last remaining magical citadel on this planet. Every other such location of great magical concentration has been methodically wiped clean off the globe, and Bill has been working on the final piece of the puzzle that will allow us to forever seal this world from the Venati,_" he grinned. "_And, of course, that fool Dumbledore has already reached Hogwarts, and is no doubt telling Riddle of the supposed alterations that some of our best have gone through._"

"Wait, _supposed_?" interjected Dumbledore, surprised. The others, however, focused on a much more different piece of information.

"What does he mean, you _went_ to Riddle?" demanded Moody as he stood up abruptly. "You told us it was involuntary!"

"Headmaster, please explain yourself!" even Hermione was enraged by this revelation.

Dumbledore seemed to shrink in himself at the onslaught of angry looks he was receiving. "I…I had thought Potter uncontrollable," he admitted. "Tom…offered to kill Potter, while making an Unbreakable Vow not to seek out and exterminate the Order or the other Wizards and Witches, blood status notwithstanding. It…was too good an offer to pass up."

Arthur Weasley, a normally calm man by any account, seemed on the verge of an apoplectic fit. "You dealt with _Riddle_?!" he all but yelled, red faced from his extreme anger. "That…_monster_ that possessed my _daughter_?!"

Hermione, however, brushed aside her father-in-law's indignant yelling and zeroed in on something Dumbledore had let slip. "What do you mean he made an Unbreakable Vow not to seek out Wizards and Witches, regardless of blood status?" she demanded. "I was under the impression that he wanted half-bloods and muggleborn exterminated."

"So were we," added in Moody with a growl, followed by a nod from Frank.

Dumbledore hesitantly shrugged. "To be completely honest, I don't understand either. It was his idea to include that clause, even," he added. "I had been about to suggest it, but he beat me to it. I merely thought that Tom might have turned a new leaf."

Frank slapped a hand to his own face in frustration, while Moody shook his head in disgust. "And we wondered _why_ Potter held us in such contempt?"

Dumbledore had enough pride to look indignant. "I understand my mistake now, Alastor," he snapped. "After Tom made it clear what he wanted my golems to do, I wanted none of it, and he imprisoned me, as you well know."

"Bit late for a change of heart, there, Dumbledore," observed Frank coldly. "Who knows how many Imperial soldiers would try to kill you if they knew that the man who created the golems who killed their mates was on this ship?"

Dumbledore seemed resigned to his fate, however. "Whatever happens, happens, Frank," he told the man simply. "My sins are too huge to be washed away with simple death, however."

Hermione, for her part, was growing disgusted with the whole affair, and simply motioned to the recording. "Please, continue the recording," she half-asked, half-demanded.

Obligingly, Dumbledore pressed the button and hologram Harry unfroze once again.

"_Of course, that part was all thanks to you, my lovely flower,_" Harry practically crooned, making Hermione blush unwillingly at the way he'd spoken the words, again meant for Ginny. "_Such a brilliant plan in its simplicity. Hide an object with another._"

"A red herring," supplied Hermione when she saw the confused looks.

"_We didn't want word of Project Valkyrie to get out, so we created Project Faust. An external, artificial core!_" he laughed. "_Can you believe how gullible some people can get? A little masterful transfiguration and charms work, and the rest was essentially light shows. Sirius, of course, proved to be an amazing magical master—catching that AK and snuffing it out. Of course, he'll probably never admit that all it took was split-second Disapparation coupled with fancy lights to make it look like he caught the AK. A real masterpiece, in any case."_

Harry grinned conspiratorially. "_Of course, mine was just as masterful, if I do say so myself,_" he essentially gloated. "_Putting up glass barriers around the Death Eaters, placing them under a contained distance sensory-alteration charm, and charming them to look like an abandoned Harrisburg? The whole thing drove them mad!"_

Arthur looked at Hermione for answers now, ignoring Dumbledore altogether. "Distance sensory-alteration charm?"

Hermione nodded. "Basically, he charms people to believe that the distance they are covering is much greater than it really is, meaning that although the victim may _feel_ like they are moving forward, they're really just running in place."

"Ingenious," breathed Arthur in admiration. Even Dumbledore seemed shocked at the ingenuity of the charm.

"So that's how he did it," he mumbled to himself, before continuing the recording.

"_It was all a load of nonsense, of course. External cores? Bill would have been over the moon if any such breakthrough was possible. No, the __real__ importance was on Project Valkyrie, which no one thankfully ever found out about,_" Harry continued, a satisfied look on his face. The image then blurred suddenly, sizzling out of existence. After a moment of shocked silence, however, the hologram returned, though this time, the Harry they were staring at seemed much more serious and lacking any of the levity his previous incarnation had.

"_I admit, I'm impressed, Dumbledore,_" the recording said then, startling the assembled mages by looking straight at Dumbledore. "_I honestly thought you would have stopped long ago, probably out of disgust of my actions and plans. You have a harder stomach than I gave you credit for, it seems._"

The figure then looked to its sides and continued. "_I'm going to take a wild guess and say that Ms. Granger-Weasley, my father in law, Neville's father, and Moody are all there as well, yes?_" he surmised, to their shock. The hologram chuckled darkly. "_How pointless. Asking a rhetorical question via recording? Not the best way to guarantee an answer. It's no surprise, though, that you would surround yourself with the aforementioned, Dumbledore. I imagine you watched a few seconds, decided it was potentially ground-breaking information, and chose to include the more rationally-inclined members of your former organization? Face it, Dumbledore, you're an easy book to read._"

Hologram Harry clasped his hands again. "_Let's see…how about some context, first? I've just woken up from dealing with Riddle in my mind, Viktor and his squad got you out of Hogwarts, and Ginny put two blades through Narcissa Malfoy's eyes. So, in taking the time to freshen up, I've decided to update this living will of mine with more recent information, as it were."_

"_Let's be clear here, Dumbledore. I hate you,_" he declared vehemently. "_I despise you. In fact, there are very little ways one can describe how I feel about you within the confines of all the human languages __combined__, but rest assured that I wish you were dead. However, even as I hate you, I do recognize the intellectual mind behind the skewed vision of reality. Were I a different man, and had I grown in a different environment, perhaps you would have filled a paternal role in my life as you no doubt wished you could in your efforts to control me. That has not happened, nor will it ever._"

Harry didn't let up, however, and continued. "_That being said, I have decided to leave this living will of mine in your hands because of two reasons. You have the intellectual capacity, combined with the right amount of ruthlessness, to understand why I did what I did. Second, I gambled on the idea that you would have others listen in on this, and if I am correct, then the five most rational minds in the former Order are now listening to me and the others have set you straight, making you clear-headed enough to understand what I'm about to divulge. With their help, I expect that you will come to understand what humanity is dealing with right now, and take the appropriate actions to save it should I fail._"

"Got that right," mumbled Moody, who had his real eye glaring at Dumbledore reproachfully, while his electric-blue magical eye was focused on the recording.

"_The Venati, as you've no doubt just been educated by myself, are the biggest threat to humanity. Not just because they consume anything and everything, nor because they are attracted to worlds with magic. They are the most dangerous threat to humanity because, on a genetic level, they are __perfect__,_" warned Harry. "_Not in the sense that we should all aspire to become Venati, but because their genetic structures are, in a word, parasitic. It sounds like an error in biological terminology, but it really, really isn't._"

"_You see, Venati are, as I've explained before, shape shifters. However, the method by which they shape shift is intrinsically linked with their genetic makeup. One cannot look, feel, and come across as human, after all, without actually __being__ human."_

"What?" asked Frank, looking confused.

Hermione, for her part, looked downright horrified. "No," she breathed. "No way. That's impossible."

"What, girl?" demanded Moody. "What is it?"

"What he's suggesting…it's…no, that's completely and biologically impossible," she repeated herself, shaking her head in denial.

"_At this moment, I imagine that Ms. Granger-Weasley has become something of a basket case over my choice of words,_" the hologram amazingly predicted. "_Rest assured, Ms. Granger, I am __not__ fibbing. Venati shape shift by taking their victim's DNA and reconfiguring their own to match it, with several, subtle alterations that, unless you modify your equipment to look for it, would pass undetected in all known scanning equipment,_" he revealed. "_This is what allows them to take a human figure, while retaining their Venati mind._"

Frank blinked. "I still don't understand," he admitted somewhat shamefully. "Isn't he just saying what happens with metamorphmagi?" he asked Hermione carefully.

The bushy-haired brunette shook her head wildly in denial. "No! It's so much more horrible than that," she replied, horrified by the revelation. "Metamorphmagi are, at the very most basic level, experts at self-Transfiguration. They can change the way they look, but what it's doing is temporarily changing their superficial appearance, not rewriting their genetic code. What the Duke is saying is…well…the Venati aren't just changing their appearance, they _become_ you by actually _changing_ their genetic makeup. It would be virtually undetectable. Magic users back in the day would certainly have had no method of distinguishing one person from a shape-shifted Venati counterpart."

"What's so impossible about it, then?" asked Arthur, curious.

"Arthur, changing one's genetic makeup would necessitate, in the best of conditions, a very slow and progressive process. It would take months, if not years of progressive gene therapy to insert new genes or take out old ones. What the Venati are doing is changing their genetic makeup _on the spot_, which, if done on a human, would undoubtedly cause catastrophic, cascading genetic failure. The body would become so overtaxed in trying to rewrite itself that it would eventually just cease to function," Hermione babbled the explanation away as she realized what kind of creature they were dealing with.

Hologram Harry seemed amused at something, even as the Order members fretted away. "_And now I imagine that Ms. Granger has explained why this ability of the Venati's is so incredibly dangerous,_" he once again predicted with amazing accuracy. "_But what she doesn't know is that there is a way to fuse human and Venati genes in order to create a hybrid._"

Hermione's eyes boggled at the thought.

"_Of course, when such an event happened, it was completely by accident,_" added Harry nonchalantly. "_I personally would have never imagined, nor wanted to imagine, the idea of combining a human being with a Venati. Just the mental images would have been scarring for life._"

He brought up an arm for apparent inspection of his left hand. "_When it did happen, however, the recipient had no idea that anything had changed in him. He spent years in blissful ignorance of the fact until one day, while secluded in his quarters, he let out some pent up frustrations and realized that the fist he had punched against a wall was imbedded in it, and was now the shape of a blade. Like so,_" he said, just as his left hand seemed to blur and slowly morphed itself into a gleaming onyx-coloured blade.

"_Observe. The material is no longer human in genetic structure,_" he recited as a scientist would, unknowingly ignoring the horrified looks of his unseen audience. "_It is of chitinous texture, but with the durability and tensile strength of hardened composite steel. And, after extensive genetic testing by Bill, we have confirmed that is it entirely Venati in provenance._"

He shifted his hand back into human shape and crossed his arms over his chest, adopting a semi-confrontational posture. "_As you may have surmised, I am a Human-Venati hybrid, and believe me, not by choice._"

* * *

_Imperial Front Lines, ITT A-5…_

Harry was already standing in front of the ramp when the ship touched ground, the sound of Venati throwing themselves at the metallic hull ringing all around him. Behind him, the soldiers of his prized First Legion were lining up in formation, their ADST armour ready to protect them from the Venati, while their fully automatic, non-magic enhanced weapons were all raised and ready to mow down some hellspawn.

Harry had his hands clasped behind his back, his stance wide and his head bowed slightly as he waited for the ramp to fall. When the activation klaxon rang and the lighting in the cargo hold turned green, Harry noticed it but did not react to it.

Patiently, he waited while he heard the sound of the ramp activating and slowly lowering itself, finally allowing the light of day reach the otherwise hermetically sealed cargo area of the ITT.

The sound of hungry Venati reached his ears, howling and baying for blood as was their wont. He sniffed in disgust once before returning to his patient demeanour.

"Steel yourselves, lads," he warned his men suddenly, even as the ramp lowered enough for some Venati to futilely try to stick their heads through the gaps between the ramp and the ITT's hull. "From here on out, there's no retreat without death. No victory without sacrifice. Last chance to back out."

The overwhelming silence gave him his answer. Finally, the Venati seemed to rein themselves in as they realized they would have to wait to assault the men inside the transport, giving the descending ramp a wide berth as they waited like the skilled predators they were.

Surprising them, however, the ramp stopped its slow descent about half-way before simply dropping to the ground with a loud thud, also kicking up a lot of dust. Almost immediately, the Venati sprung into action, but were just as quickly stopped when a particular smell assailed their sensitive noses. It was different, and at the same time, familiar. Even to them, it reeked of corruption of their own kind, which surprisingly drew them back as they realized there was something very wrong with this situation.

Out of the cloud of dust, they watched as a single man emerged, his hands clasped behind his back—seemingly alone in his venture. Immediately, they realized this man was the source of the wrongness they had been smelling, and growled in a feral manner as most predators did when threatened.

Harry, for his part, was unimpressed—an apparent benefit of having Venati genes in him now. He was no longer assailed by the impossible fear he had felt in India. Right now, they felt like any other animal, and that gave him an edge over them.

"Human…with the ssssmell of Venati?" demanded one of the creatures as it seemed to waver between aggression and apprehension.

"A gift from an old acquaintance," Harry replied simply as he unclasped his hands and brought his arms forward, changing them into the chitinous, onyx blades he had recorded in the hologram. "He sends his regards. Says to say, 'fuck you.'"

With that, he swung his two blade-arms downward, and with a little magic channelling, kicked up a wind that blew away the cloud of dust, revealing to the Venati the sight of fifty heavily armed ADSTs holding their weapons at the ready, their sights trained on the surrounding enemies.

"Impossssssible!" hissed one of the Venati.

Almost instantly, the creature's head was separated from its body by one of Harry's blade arms as he casually walked past it.

"I get that a lot," he stated belatedly. "First Legion!"

Immediately, the Venati forces immediately close to the ITT realized their predicament and lunged forward to rip apart the Imperial forces. They never got the chance.

"FIRE!"


	50. Chapter XLIII: Past, Present, and Future

_AN: Okay, next chapter. Also, kind of curious how many complaints I'll get for Dumbledore's portrayal. *shrugs* I guess I'm about to find out, eh? - MB_

_Also, amusing note: it's actually getting that the Chapter Roman Numeral part of the title is eating up the character limit so much that I can barely fit an adequate title anymore. Note to self -- don't do that ever again. :P  
_

_

* * *

Previously…_

_Almost instantly, the creature's head was separated from its body by one of Harry's blade arms as he casually walked past it._

"_I get that a lot," he stated belatedly. "First Legion!"_

_Immediately, the Venati forces immediately close to the ITT realized their predicament and lunged forward to rip apart the Imperial forces. They never got the chance._

"_FIRE!"_

* * *

The moment his "bodyguards" opened fire, Harry sprung into action, completely ignoring the hail of bullets at his back. Launching himself forward, he quickly shifted his arms into the chitinous, onyx blades he had previously demonstrated and lunged at the nearest Venati, using his arms to impale two of them through the head—moments before they were then shredded apart by the armour-piercing bullets of the ADST.

Shifting his right arm back into human form, Harry kicked himself off the ground sideways, using his left arm as leverage as he moved sideways and landed on an attacking Venati's body. Landing left-foot first, he then brought down his right knee and, shifting his right arm back into a blade mid-swing, pierced the Venati's neck, severing it almost completely.

Taking out his impaled arms, he was about to get attacked from behind when he merely closed his eyes, adopting a look of concentration, and three spikes suddenly shot out from his back, impaling the Venati in the head, chest area, and front right leg. It died with barely a yelp as it hung off his back spikes, which he quickly retracted.

He was pleased when he saw that not only had the ADST unit seen everything, they also didn't seem to care. Instead, they held their ground with military precision, alternating between shooting from the hip or precision firing with their fully automatic assault rifles. Slowly, though, they _were_ making progress, as the circle of Venati became wider and the way to the Imperial lines became more and more possible.

Eventually, the ADST unit made its way to Harry, standing ominously on guard behind him as they heard their ITT fly away. There was no more use for it on the ground. From here on out, they would keep killing, or be killed in the end. No retreat, no surrender.

"There is only one measure of success," Harry reminded his men as he observed the wary throng of Venati around them. Without raising his arms, he morphed them back into their onyx blade shapes, adding an elbow spike to them as well. His eyes seemed to burn with green fire, with sickly green wisps of vapour escaping his eyes. "Kill or be killed."

* * *

Helen Parker, Lance Corporal, First Legion, 2nd Company watched as her CO shifted his arm from human to weapon in a matter of seconds with a dispassionate gaze. Helen, a veteran of both the RNA and the India Campaign of 1995, was one of the few in the whole world who, like her other First Legion comrades, knew what the Duke had done to preserve the planet.

She didn't know the full details, of course—she figured there wasn't a single soul throughout the entirety of the human race who knew that much other than the Duke himself—but she knew of the experiments, of the deliberate calculations he had taken in making sure the world was guided in the right direction.

Helen had always known about the Venati. Well, maybe not always—but certainly after the India Campaign, when the future Duke had told them exactly what they had fought. She considered that the day the First Legion was born, for all intents and purposes. Even if they had all stared at him in horror back then, the weight of that revelation markedly changed them all. Maybe it _was_ coincidence that, barely two years later, they were all brought back together in their new respective regiments to fight as part of the Royal Northern Army in Scotland. Or, more likely, they had all felt drawn to the now-promoted Colonel Harry Potter, whom they had all known as a wee lad. Hell, Helen herself was five years his senior, and she had been among the _youngest_ in the India detachment.

She surmised that watching the young man before her now was somewhat akin to how a big sister might feel after watching her youngest brother make something of himself. It was a mix of apprehension for his safety and genuine pride. However, overpowering both feelings was also the inexorable sense of duty that every soldier felt when marching into battle.

He was not her honorary sibling right now. He was the Iron Duke, Hero of the Empire.

Her leader.

She heard him as he spoke. Grim words indeed, but never more true than right now. Here they were, 50 ADST-armoured First Legion soldiers and one Human-Venati hybrid, surrounded by innumerable Venati foes. Suicidal odds any other day.

Perfect for the First Legion.

The First. No one ever questioned _why_ they were the First. Not that the reason was complicated, though. They were the First because they were the first Imperial soldiers who had come face to face with the dark reality that were the Venati. They were the first to meet them, and then bleed because of them. Like their emblem suggested, they were the Sword and Shield of humanity. They were the Snake Eaters, the Empire's Finest.

They were the First.

She heard the sergeant shout then, giving the order to split up into FAM teams and spread out along the circular area their point-defence had formed.

She immediately glanced at the person to her left, Private Jack Miller, another India veteran like her. Even if she couldn't see his expression through the ADST-issued helmet, she knew he was looking right back at her. It was a sense that developed over the years of camaraderie on the field of battle. With a nod, the two immediately slid into position, bumping into each other's backs as they levelled their fully automatic assault rifles and silently dared the Venati to attack.

It didn't take long. The Duke and they had already killed quite a few of the creatures, and the other Venati seemed to take offense both to their fellows' deaths as well as to the Duke's mere presence. Thus, within a few seconds of the 50 soldiers splitting up into 25 FAM teams, the Venati lashed out, quickly sprinting towards them in order to render their weapons inconvenient.

Helen and Jack, along with their fellow mates, were having none of that. Instead, they opened fire the moment the Venati seemed to twitch their muscles for movement, quickly mowing down twenty of them within seconds of the shooting starting. Yet, the odds against them _were_ overwhelming enough to warrant some of the creatures to get close. When they did, they lashed out with their muscular legs to claw at the ADST armour, which took the hit with minimal damage. When this did happen, Helen quickly let go of the assault rifle's forward grasp and lowered it to her sidearm, which she drew and used to shoot the offending creatures at point blank range, all the while keeping up a steady rate of (inaccurate) fire at the throng of Venati around them.

The Duke was also quite helpful in that regard. Whenever the creatures go in close, he would often morph his arm into one some sort of organic whip, which he would in turn use to drag the creature away from the soldiers and throw it at its fellow Venati, often bowling them over in the process and scoring multiple kills whenever he followed that up with a morphed arm blade.

Occasionally, however, the Duke forewent the use of his mutagenic arms entirely, instead relying on good old fashioned close-combat tactics and his magic. Helen actually watched him vaporize a Venati by ramming what seemed like a glowing ball of energy into its side, causing a magnificent explosion that obliterated the creature and five more near it.

Not that Helen herself was without her fair share of impressive kills.

One of the Venati, having somehow managed to survive a hail of bullets, had launched itself at her, aiming to topple her over and have the other creatures overwhelm her with sheer numbers. Unfortunately for the creature, she quickly broke off her back-to-back arrangement, slipped underneath the beast, and came back up behind it as it flew through thin air.

"Down, doggy," she said laconically, before riddling it with more bullets.

She heard the tell-tale click of an empty magazine then, and turned to her partner, who still seemed to be going strong.

"Reloading!" she informed him, before turning her full attention to ejecting the empty clip, grabbing a new one from her belt, and jamming it into place. The whole process took less than 2 seconds, but those were critical seconds where she could have been hit by any number of enemies.

She wasn't worried, though. Training dictated that while one of them reloaded, the other half of the team was to provide covering fire, and Jake was _very_ good at his job. Quickly moving his forward arm to his hip, Jake grabbed a hold of a small submachine gun they all carried for this express purpose and snapped back into position at Helen's back, his arms spread wide as he let loose with both guns. All this time, he spoke not a word.

"Done," she said simply when she had finished reloading, once again resuming her killing spree. With a nod, Jake stopped firing with his SMG and quickly holstered it, returning his now free arm to the forward grip of his assault rifle and continuing his firing with deadly accuracy.

Helen quickly dispatched three of the nearest approaching Venati, each of them tapped twice in the head. A glance around her told her that the 50-man strong detachment seemed to be performing beyond expectations, with not a single loss yet to their name. The Duke, for his part seemed to be moving from team to team, often providing backup when things looked a little too hairy.

Their good fortune was bound to fail at some point, however. Good as the ADST-armoured First Legion troops were, the Venati were no slouches, either. They hadn't become the most lethal hunters in existence out of pure chance—it was all experience, adaptability, and skill.

As such, the first death in their 50-man group came when one Private Kyle Manning's assault rifle suddenly jammed in the middle of firing. Even though he had then proceeded to act according to protocol, one of the Venati was able to reach him before he had finished fixing his weapon and spear-tackled the man, bringing the soldier to the ground roughly and leaving his partner exposed, which other Venati quickly took advantage of.

Manning's partner was quickly overwhelmed as dozens of Venati attacked him suddenly from all sides while the Duke was away helping another team. Even though the ADST armour held on long enough for him to dispatch 10 of the offending Venati, it finally did give out, and Manning's partner died when a Venati morphed part of its neck into a long, thin lance and rammed it into his heart.

His partner's death enraged Manning into a frenzy, however, and after shooting his foe in the face with his pistol, he quickly aimed at the murderous creature that had killed his partner and shot it multiple times as well. Unfortunately, by shooting form his face-up prone position, he allowed a Venati to sneak in behind him and ram a morphed spike underneath his helmet, jamming it straight into his brain and instantly ending his life.

Upon noticing the end of two of their comrades' lives, however, the detachment renewed their assault with furious vigour, cutting down any and all Venati who tried to inch closer to them. However, the deaths of two of their own had also highlighted the inherent problem of their FAM tactic—something that their sergeant was quick to remedy.

"Double line!" Helen heard the sergeant roar over the comm. "Double-edged, stubbed formation!"

With a brief word of acknowledgement, she turned her attention to her partner and tapped him in the side with her elbow lightly, notifying him of their redeployment. With a short nod, Jake broke off his assault and provided covering fire as she made her way to the middle of their circular defensive area. Once in the middle, she turned and provided Jake with covering fire, successfully warding off the incoming Venati as he dashed over to the middle as well. Everywhere around her, the ADST FAM teams were nearing in to the middle, where Helen and the sergeant's FAM team were already waiting.

Once they were all concentrated in the middle, they quickly got into position, forming two rows of 13 ADST each, with the remaining two members acting as the "stubs" of the double-line on each end, thus providing flank-covering fire. Helen was one of those stubs.

The Venati merely seemed to scoff at their new formation, having taken heart—_did_ they take heart? At all? Did they even have something _like_ a human heart?—from the successful kill of two of the otherwise seemingly unstoppable band of humans. Excited at the prospect of finally killing off these nuisances so that they could focus on the _real_ danger—that being the Duke—they pounced on the armoured soldiers with all due speed, seeking a quick resolution to the fighting.

The ADSTs were having none of it, however. Feet firmly planted on the ground and assault rifles levelled at eyesight, they held their ground with unshakeable discipline. In the middle of the forward-facing line, the detachment's commanding sergeant kept their morale up with his speeches.

"NO RETREAT, NO SURRENDER!" the sergeant yelled as the group opened fire and exterminated the advancing lines of the Venati.

"AH-OO!" The group responded with a loud, chanted yell of affirmation.

"NO SACRIFICE, NO VICTORY!"

"AH-OO!" they chanted again, once more mowing down the advancing enemy with deadly precision.

"IN LIFE, HONOUR!"

"AH-OO!"

"IN PEACE, VIGILANCE!"

"AH-OO!"

The First Legion soldiers chanted their Legion creed without missing a single step in their defence. There was a good reason they had the reputation of being the single most reliable Legion in the entire Armed Forces, after all, and that was partially due to the very obvious characteristic that one noticed when one spoke to a First Legion trooper.

Fanaticism.

Nothing short of that word seemed adequate, to be honest. Off the battlefield, on the battlefield—it made no difference. They were always seemingly ready to kill at the behest of the only man they _ever_ acknowledged as their rightful commander: the Duke of Halifax. The Queen, they would follow to the death, but the Duke, they would follow into Hell.

Said Duke was doing a right proper job of instilling the fear of God into the Venati, too. Despite their massed firepower, the damage they were inflicting on the Venati was just _not_ comparable to the damage he was singlehandedly dishing out on the forces of true Darkness.

He was like a bloody whirlwind hitting a town made of _hay_. Combining his magic with his mutating body was just bloody _unfair_, as far as the Venati were concerned.

Hell, even _they_ hadn't thought the merging of Venati and human cells possible.

Then again, neither had Harry. He'd just gone with the flow on it.

Plus, the humans had actually found a way to _neutralize_ their psychological _and_ physical effects on the humans? What the hell had happened to the nice, ready-to-be-consumed race they had encountered less than two decades ago?

The results being, many, _many_ dead Venati littering the grounds of Hogwarts as the Duke and his detachment of ADSTs, combined with hundreds of other, much bigger detachments scattered among the Imperial lines and within the Venati ranks themselves, mowed the Dark army down.

And yet, despite the apparent gains they were acquiring, Harry couldn't help but feel worried, even as he impaled four more of the foul creatures on his spiked arm. The creatures themselves, while positively terrorizing and lethal, were not the true threat he was seeking out. That honour was reserved for the man…or _thing_ currently residing in Hogwarts Castle.

The plan was quite simple. They had already vaporized his golem army, _forcing_ him to reveal the Venati ahead of schedule and thus reveal one of his aces, but now it seemed to be much harder to proceed to step two: forcing out his lieutenants.

How many more Venati did he have to kill to prove how dangerous he was to Riddle's plans before he sent his trusted lieutenants to kill him?

Sighing in frustration at his inability to come up with an adequate answer, he focused once more on dispatching the Venati more and more spectacularly, hoping that the incredibly showy—and totally misleading—acts of power would convince Riddle of the need to eliminate him immediately.

The now-defunct SAS said it best, he found.

He Who Dares, Wins.

* * *

_HMIS Invincible…_

"Judging from the looks on your faces, I'd wager you found out about something that I'll probably have to smack Harry for divulging later on."

Those were the words of Bill Weasley upon seeing the five frazzled, most intelligent members of the Order of the Phoenix barge into his personal laboratory on the _Invincible_. As a point of interest, it hadn't actually been _designed_ as a lab; the room was actually supposed to be his living quarters.

Hermione blinked at the amazingly accurate statement. "How did you--?"

Bill rolled his eyes before pointing at the disk that Dumbledore was carrying like it was a precious object. "Who do you think gave that moron the holographic recorder?" he asked dryly. "It's not like those grow on trees y'know."

Just then, Fleur walked out of an adjacent room, carrying a small stack of papers. She looked quite unhappy with the menial labour, but stopped upon sight of the mages.

"What are…isn't that your prototype holographic recorder?" she asked Bill, changing questions mid-sentence.

Bill rolled his eyes. "It sure is," he confirmed deadpan.

"But you gave that to His Grace."

"I sure did."

"He said it was for something important."

"His living will, in fact," corrected Bill.

Somehow, that didn't seem to faze the Frenchwoman at all. "So why do they have it?"

Bill raised an inquisitive, and cocky, eyebrow at the group as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Why indeed?"

The five mages, who had been looking from Fleur to Bill back and forth during the short interplay seemed to shrink under the irritated gaze of the disk's creator. Obviously, he hadn't meant for his new toy to fall in their hands, and like a little boy with his toys, was extremely jealous over who got their hands on it.

"The Duke…" Hermione braved, "…sent it to us—I mean, to Dumbledore, before he left."

Fleur couldn't help it. She snorted out loud in laughter. Had her hands not been occupied carrying the small, important stack of papers, she would have covered her mouth when she did.

Bill seemed equally amused. "As far as excuses go," he replied deadpan, "that rates about as credible as 'the dog ate my homework.'"

"Actually, that happened to me once," Fleur interjected, finally deciding to put down the stack on Bill's horrendously cluttered desk. "Our family dog, _Toutou_, got a hold of my charms work and ate it."

Bill raised an eyebrow at her. "Did the teacher believe it?"

"What do you think?"

A cough.

Bill and Fleur turned their heads towards the group of mages, seeing Arthur Weasley hide his mouth behind a closed fist as they did so.

Bill waved away their obvious frustration at his and Fleur's byplay. "Fine, fine," he conceded, annoyed. "What earth-shattering information did my _foolish_ brother in law reveal so I can smack him appropriately later on?"

"Everything," was Hermione's single-word, and yet strongly passionate answer.

Bill was unimpressed. How many times had he heard _that_ before? "Indulge me. Define 'everything'" he countered, making mocking air quotation marks as he repeated her answer.

Hermione glared at him for the display, but thankfully cooler heads prevailed as Dumbledore chose to take over.

"Mr Pot—The Duke saw fit to inform us of how he…directed, for lack of a better word, the events after the coup towards this particular battle," he informed the eldest Weasley child.

Bill audibly groaned at this, banging his head violently against his wooden table once and keeping it there. "Of all the…_idiotic_ things to do…" he muttered irritably. He briefly moved his head so that he could see the group from the very top of his sight. "I assume he said _why_ he had to do what he did?"

The group nodded, and Bill once again groaned as he smacked his head with the table. Hermione, not one to be slow on the uptake, quickly seemed to grasp what Bill's frustration seemed to stem from.

"Wait, you're not angry at him for telling us, are you?" she asked shrewdly.

Unmoving from his prone position on the table, Bill instead raised a hand to wave that question off. Seconds later, however, he did raise his head and fixed a stern glare at them.

"Of course not," he answered irritably. "_That_ part I knew he was going to do. All part of his plan to utterly crush your faith and open your eyes."

After hearing Harry himself explain the things he had done over the years, the group of mages just couldn't bring themselves to being surprised at that revelation. Instead, they watched as Bill got up and paced his small study area with his hands wildly gesticulating.

"Of course, _that_ wasn't supposed to happen until _after_ he died," he explained in frustration. "_IF_ he died, to be more precise. It's called a will for damn good reason, damn it all!"

Fleur's face registered immediate comprehension and shock, as did Hermione and Dumbledore's, but the other three mages were a few seconds behind.

"That _idiot_ promised me he wouldn't do this," continued Bill, even as his brow scrunched up in thought. "Damn it, if I'd known he'd do this…"

"He doesn't expect to survive, does he?" breathed Hermione, hands shooting to her mouth in barely concealed horror.

Bill actually stopped his pacing to stare at her with a glare. "No, he just thought he'd share his living will before he died for the kicks, I'm sure," he snarked. "_Of course_ he thinks he's going to die, silly girl!"

Hermione couldn't even bring herself to look outraged at his offensive tone, instead consumed by the idea that the Duke of Halifax, probably _the_ most powerful man _alive_, thought he was going to die in the combat beneath them.

Fleur, despite being similarly horrified, was nonetheless better trained than Hermione at controlling her emotional impulses, and quickly got to work. "Why is he thinking this way?" she asked quickly. "He easily eclipses most of the world's fighters, magical or not! Does he expect Riddle to be stronger than him?"

Bill actually paused to consider the question, silently thankful for the presence of rational mind in the midst of such emotional tumult. "No…" he mused, eyes narrowing as he frowned in pensive thought. "No, that can't be it. Harry is smart; if he thought Riddle was much stronger than him, he wouldn't engage him in a one-on-one battle…not without first severely weakening him via alternative methods."

"Surely, forcing Tom to sustain the entire golem army, then summoning the Venati must count as such a way of draining the enemy?" Dumbledore suggested.

Bill thought for a moment and then shook his head in the negative. "No…that would be too simple. Furthermore, we have the fact that Riddle actually managed to pull off a Magical Shockwave type 5, which we can only imagine must have been an incredible waste of power. That's not someone with limited reserves would do off hand," he rationalized as he continued his pacing. "No…if I had to venture a guess, and seeing the present evidence we possess…I have to guess that he thinks Riddle and he are too evenly matched to have one of them succeed in killing the other without taking themselves out in the process."

"What about the prophecy?" asked Dumbledore suddenly, catching Bill off-guard.

"Prophecy?" he asked dubiously. "What prophecy? Did some old crone make one about this?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Our former Divination professor, in fact," he confirmed.

Bill snorted. "Trelawney?" he guffawed. "That old bat? That hardly counts as hard evidence, Dumbledore. That woman predicted _someone_'s death every day!"

Even Hermione couldn't contain her snort of derision at the thought of the batty professor from her school days. She never _could_ muster the self-discipline to even _pretend_ to respect the now-deceased Divination professor.

Dumbledore seemed to shrug in agreement. "Nonetheless, this prophecy was real," he pressed. "It fulfilled all the characteristics of a prophetic trance, and sure enough, most of the events it described were fulfilled soon after."

Bill crossed his arms. "Explain."

Lacking an actual Pensieve, Dumbledore decided to actually recite the prophecy to Bill, who absorbed the words with academic vigour. From the corner of his eye, he could see Fleur similarly analyzing the information provided, and was once again glad to have her at his side.

"This changes things," Fleur stated finally after a long pause.

Bill nodded. "And yet, it changes nothing," he added.

Only Dumbledore this time seemed able to follow the duo's train of thought, with even Hermione seeming a little lost.

"Beg pardon?" she asked.

Bill shrugged his shoulders, arms still crossed. "The prophecy has been fulfilled up to the very last condition for their final fight," he explained. "Harry's been marked, he _somehow_ survived getting AK'ed to the face, and they're both facing each other."

"There is the matter of the Horcruxes, however," interjected Dumbledore.

Bill waved that aside. "The Horcruxes were already hunted down," Bill said deadpan. "They were destroyed even before we got to them."

Dumbledore seemed shocked by the revelation. "Destroyed? By whom?"

"Not us," was all Bill said. "But if you _really_ want my guess, Riddle had a hand in it."

"Preposterous!" Dumbledore protested. "Why would Tom, who fears death more than anything, destroy his own anchors to eternal life?"

Bill raised an eyebrow. "Maybe he found something better," he suggested blandly. "Say…the Venati?"

Dumbledore paled. "Surely, he couldn't!"

"Harry did," Fleur pointed out.

"By mistake, on his own admission!" Dumbledore shot back, growing more and more worried with every passing second.

"But Riddle knew," Bill replied calmly. "He spent the majority of his incarcerated time in Harry's mind. We know this."

"Which means…" realized Moody, who had been silently following the conversation. "That Riddle has become obsessed about merging with a Venati as well."

Bill nodded in agreement. "Exactly. The problem _was_, no one knew how," he stated.

"_Knew_, as in, now you know?" asked Hermione, suddenly feeling a chill go down her spine.

Bill nodded. "It was necessary," he stated simply. "We needed to know how Venati cells worked."

"How so?" asked his father, who had been staring at his son with quiet worry as the young man acted less and less like the son he'd known.

"Venati can morph into other shapes—did Harry inform you of that?" he saw nods. "Good, easier on the explanation then. Basically, from the moment he bailed me out, he had me working on Venati genetic coding, which we obviously had a problem with, considering there were no known Venati on the planet," Bill explained. "Of course, _that_ ceased to be a problem when we found out, at his next physical—this one administered by myself—that he was genetically…_evolving_, I suppose, into a Venati-Human hybrid."

"How come no one else noticed before?!" demanded Frank, obviously confused by this discrepancy. "Surely, it should have been obvious to someone else if you caught it!"

Bill raised an eyebrow at that. "No one else was looking, or even working on, what I was," he said tightly. "Most people content themselves with the routine, and it's not different with doctors. They test you and _expect_ you to be healthy; I don't. I see everything and everyone as a source of potentially new information. So I looked harder than most."

Bill took a deep breath. "The results were outstanding. The merger between the human and Venati cells was so…innocuous that if it hadn't been for my looking for something different, then I would have never noticed it. Hell, one could say I was _lucky_ to find the discrepancy at all, it was so meticulously evasive."

"But the results were undeniable," he digressed. "Harry had Venati cells in him, and neither of us could explain why. Certainly, the fact that he didn't immediately morph right there and kill me seemed reason enough to believe that _he_ wasn't one in disguise, so we went with the hypothesis that he had somehow managed to assimilate the Venati when it attacked him in India," Bill said. "Either way, it worked out wonderfully for both of us. Harry got some cool new tricks, and I was given Venati genetic material, practically unspoiled and unblemished."

"But wasn't it merging with the human tissue?" asked Hermione, dubious.

Bill nodded. "Indeed, but not all at once, and not all of it was involved in the process. There were pockets, here and there, of pure Venati genetic material spread all across his body. We figure it's their way of hiding their true nature. Without the pockets, the Venati would essentially _become_ the creatures they imitate, so these work as fail-safes—keeps the Venati mentality separate from the human."

"So the creature he killed was trying to overcome Harry?" asked Dumbledore, trying to keep up with the scientific terminology.

Bill nodded. "At least, that's what we figure," he confirmed. "However, there was too little genetic material available to completely overcome Harry, so what we're thinking is that it tried to merge as much as possible in order to keep itself alive until such a time where it could gain access to more of the Venati genetic tissue. We put a stop to that, of course."

"How?"

Bill grinned. "We forced it to completely integrate. We sought out the fail-safe pockets, erased them, and forced the rest of it to assimilate into Harry's genetic structure. The result is that now every inch of his Venati genes are now under his full control, whereas they would never have been if the pockets had still been there."

"So there's no chance he'll turn into one of those…things, right?" asked Hermione for confirmation. Bill nodded.

"No chance whatsoever," he confirmed.

"But what about Riddle?" asked Moody, irritated at the tangent they'd gone off on. "Can he do the same?"

Bill shrugged. "Probably not," he admitted. "The fact that _Harry_ managed such a synchronized merger was a damn miracle. Unsupervised, and with little to no knowledge on how the process works, it's pretty much a guarantee that Riddle's persona will be absorbed into the Venati collective."

"…What would happen, in that case?" asked Dumbledore, feeling a rising unease.

Bill actually thought that one though. Pulling up all the information on the Venati he could remember off the top of his head, he ran some quick numbers before a grimace formed on his face from the results. "The Venati would gain access to all of Riddle's powers…plus their own genetic abilities," he theorized. "I can see why Harry's being so pessimistic, then. It really _does_ look like he'll have to go take Riddle down with him."

At this point, Hermione slammed her hands down on his desk furiously. The glare she fixed on Bill actually gave the older redhead pause, though it didn't really intimidate him.

"Can't you do something about it?!" she demanded angrily. "You're his friend! His brother in law! Can't you…make some weapon and even the odds?!"

Bill narrowed his eyes. "What I do is _not_ instantaneous, girl," he told her coldly. "I can't just _pull out_ a solution out of my arse. I have to tinker, experiment, and refine. Does it look like I have the timeframe necessary for all that?" he hissed, before rising to his own feet and staring her down, his nose barely an inch from her own. "And don't lecture me on family! I followed mine. I've been helping Harry longer than _any_ of you!"

"So help him!" Hermione dared him, not backing down one inch.

"With _what_?!" he demanded right back. "Weapons? The very best I could come up with—hell, the very best _Alexandra and I_ could come up with—is on the ground already! Armour? The chitin genes he has in him protect him better than anything I could design! Power? He's already a hybrid of two very powerful species, and he was incredibly powerful even before that!" he informed her. "So tell me, _girl_, what else can I do?"

"Give him allies," she told him simply. At his stare, she elaborated. "Give him people who could fight at his side when the final fight starts up."

Bill laughed outright at that, rearing back his head and covering his eyes with one hand in sheer hilarity. "Give him allies?!" he asked, incredulously. "As in, genetically modify people with Venati genes to fight at his side?! Are you _mad_, girl?"

Dumbledore, however, didn't seem to think so. "Why not?" he asked simply.

Bill goggled at the group. "Are you all seriously asking that?" he wanted to make sure. When he saw them nod, he cracked up again. "Didn't you hear me earlier? The fact that _Harry_ made it through was a _miracle_. What makes you think anyone else could handle the genetic strain of the Venati's cells in their body?"

While it seemed to mollify most of the group, Dumbledore was not so easily convinced. "How much time would one have, theoretically speaking, before the cells either killed a person off or absorbed them in a case where the patient was flooded with Venati cells?" he pressed.

"Fifteen minutes, _at best_," Bill snapped out, irritated by the answer. "Which, of course, makes any such procedure useless, because half of the genetically altered people would die off in less than half an hour, and the other half would join the _other side_."

And then, Dumbledore did something neither Bill or Fleur, nor the other mages expected. He stepped forward and plainly said, "Do it."

Bill goggled. "_What?_"

Dumbledore offered his left arm to the scientist. "Do it to me," clarified the old mage. "Merge me with the Venati cells."

"Dumbledore?!"

"Are you out of your _mind_, Albus?!"

Fleur, for her part, seemed to swearing in rapid French as she stared at the old mage as though he'd totally _lost it_. Which, considering what he was asking them to do, seemed to fit the definition.

Bill crossed his arms in a sign of rejection. "_Hell_ no!" he refused outright. "Even if I _ever_ considered putting someone through such a procedure, what the hell are you _on_ to think I'd give you access to such power?" he demanded. "You've backstabbed the Empire so many times, it's a wonder you haven't _hanged_!"

"Albus," Frank was quick to get to the older man's side. "Think about what you're saying," the man tried to appeal to Dumbledore's reason.

Dumbledore glared at his group. "Enough!" he snapped, somewhat stunning them from the forcefulness of his voice. "I've thought this through well enough," he assured them, before turning his attention to Bill. "Mister Weasley, I'm well aware of the horrible things I've done to the Empire, but believe me when I say that this will not be such a case."

"Again, _why_ should I believe you?" demanded Bill, still disbelieving.

Dumbledore raised the holographic disk he had been holding on to. "Because the Duke does," he stated plainly, putting the disk down on Bill's desk and turning on the final parts of Harry's speech, when he had directly addressed Dumbledore and the other mages.

Bill stared at the holographic projection of Harry as it spoke, a myriad of thoughts and emotions flickering through his eyes. Eventually, as Harry began to explain the Venati, he turned the disk off, his head bowed. "Give me one more reason," he dared, though it almost seemed like he'd given in already. "Give me a reason why I should help _anyone_ effectively commit suicide?"

Dumbledore straightened up and gave the most defiant and determined gaze he'd given in nearly a century. "Because the weight of my sins is not something a judicial death can wash away," he stated simply. "But helping the Duke fight against the greatest threat to mankind in all of our brief existence, just might."

Bill stayed in that pose for a few seconds before raising his head, his eyes determined. "Fine," he conceded. "Harry trusts you, so I will as well."

Dumbledore nodded. "Good, when can we start?" he pressed, diving straight into business.

Bill glanced at Fleur, who nodded and left to make some preparations, while Bill took out a pair of latex gloves from his coat and pulled them on. "Right now," he stated.

The latex snapped into place as he finished putting on his second. "Congratulations, Dumbledore," he said, deadpan. "In sixty minutes, provided Riddle doesn't beat us to it, you're about to become the second known Human-Venati hybrid in existence. If you've got any affairs you need to get in order, I'd get them done _now_."

* * *

_Hogwarts Grounds…_

Harry grunted in exertion as he finished off his…err…well _something_ kill.

Honestly, he'd lost track of the damn things after the…fiftieth? Somewhere near there.

It was a remarkably easy thing to do, losing count of kills, when surrounded by an apparently infinite army of _identical_ creatures. Well, that, and the fact that between keeping count and staying alive, the latter kind of took over priority in brain function.

Either way, there was a pile of the damn things around him, and a lot more littering the path he'd carved for the ADSTs as they made their way through the Venati ranks. Miraculously, they had not lost a man since getting into their double-lined formation, despite all expectations to the contrary.

They made him proud, his First Legion.

But even the best of the best ran out of bullets, and even though they could just order a resupply drop, how many times could they pull _that_ off before the enemy overwhelmed his men? Not nearly enough, by his estimation.

Even more frustrating was the fact that he had not yet caught whiff or sight of Riddle's lieutenants. He knew that _reports_ said that Narcissa Malfoy was dead, but considering how crazy he knew Riddle was, he wouldn't have been surprised if he'd given the woman upgrades to stay alive, despite a couple hundred meters freefall and two blades through the eyes.

Bad guys built their lieutenants to be hard to kill like that.

Harry crossed his arms in an instant as a Venati lunged straight at him, his arms quickly morphing into their bladed forms in mid-movement. The moment the Venati's ugly head passed boss, he smirked at it and pulled his arms away, effectively severing the creature's head as though paper.

Another kill.

Not that the exertion was killing him—far from it. Thanks to both his conditioning as a soldier _and_ the advantage his hybrid genes gave him, he could keep going on like this all day without much tiring. The problem was, not everyone was like him—especially the men and women behind him who, though they were doing an admirable job in slaughtering Venati by the truckload, _were_ going to tire out well before he did.

Exhaustion equalled mistakes.

Mistakes equalled death.

The situation had not changed since they began the assault. His words still remained as true then as they did right now.

There was only one measure of success.

Kill or be killed.

Harry considered ordering his bodyguards to evacuate via airlift. They'd protest, certainly, but they couldn't disregard a direct order from him. They had practically indoctrinated _themselves_ in that regard. He could order them to walk off a cliff and they wouldn't ask why. Not that he ever would, mind you.

However, such considerations were quickly brushed aside as a shiver went down his spine and his eyes widened as a result. Instantly, his gaze snapped up to the castle, which, though completely normal to his sight, was nonetheless accumulating enormous amounts of magic, if his senses were correct.

Oh, _fuck_.

He wasted absolutely _no _time. He tapped the headset locked onto his ear and immediately transmitted a signal to every other such transmitter in a ten _kilometre_ region.

"CODE BLACK!" he yelled. "I SAY AGAIN, CODE BLACK!"

There was no need to explain what _that_ meant, either. After the first MS 5 hit the fleet, it had been necessary to classify _any_ such displays as a Code Black. Fortunately, they _now_ knew how to protect their electronics on the field—or rather, Bill had _finally_ finished giving them a clean bill of health.

The people in the sky would have to make do with what they had.

Turning his head to his contingent of bodyguards, who undoubtedly had already heard him screaming the order for all he was worth, he again wasted no time to instruct them on appropriate procedure, even as he skewered a couple of Venati who wanted to take advantage of his distracted state. "DEPLOYABLE SHIELDS!" he roared. "NOW!"

The sergeant at the head of the contingent didn't need telling twice. Instantly, the man's hand had shot to the Kevlar strap that crossed his chest and plucked an oval looking device the size of his fist from it.

"SHIELD!" the man shouted as he pulled the safety pin from the device and then threw it at his feet. Instantly, a bubble shield appeared around them—courtesy of Weasley & Weasley Defence Technologies. Essentially a contained Protego Maxima, the shield was good for maybe two minutes, which in this case was exactly the amount of time they needed.

No sooner had they deployed the shield that the castle began to glow exponentially brighter with every passing second. Soon, it wasn't a glow, but a pulse, concentrated along the length of the Astronomy Tower.

"MS 5!" roared Harry as he, too, put up a shield that would protect his core from the substantial blast. An MS 5 against a magical being that _wasn't_ a dragon could cause anything from a temporary boost in power to a fatal aneurysm, and frankly, Harry wasn't about to test the odds.

And then, the castle shot out its only weapon.

Seeing it fire off an MS 5 was not like watching a nuke explode. There was no explosion—no outward sign of change, other than a sudden, bright flash of light, followed by nothing. The real danger lay in the powerful shockwave of magic that was propelled at incredible speeds. It was like concentrating enough magic to level a mountain in one, tiny location, then forcing it to expand suddenly from an internal Banishment Charm. It was soundless, sightless, and totally lethal to electronics and somewhat so to unprotected magical creatures.

Fortunately, one only had to protect oneself from the initial blast to avoid the effects. The moment the shockwave passed his location, Harry dropped the shield and, seeing himself being attacked from all sides, curled into a ball and morphed every part of his body into long spikes that shot out instantly, terminating the lives of the Venati who had tried to use the MS 5—to which they are apparently immune—to kill the person they considered to be both an affront to their existence and their most dangerous foe.

Still, that left Harry with a problem. Whatever reason they had not to use the castle as a magical amplifier, clearly Riddle had overcome. They couldn't afford more of those blasts on a continuous basis—the _fleet_ couldn't take more of those on a continuous basis!

Growling, Harry found that he had no choice. He clicked on his transmitter again. "Wolf, this is Harry, respond," he ordered in a clipped tone. Behind him, the sound of gunfire told him the ADSTs' shield had been dropped and the fighting had been renewed.

"_We…cough…read you, sir!_" he finally heard. From the static in the channel, he could imagine that things were going rather badly in the sky.

"Status?" he inquired, always taking care to kill the Venati who came close as he spoke.

"…_hit pretty bad…ields…failed…orking on bringing…em…again._"

"Losses?" he asked immediately.

"_The…-sion…I…ay…ain…the Ascension…down…_"

Harry grimaced. Losing the _Ascension_ was quite the blow, considering that that it was one class smaller than the _Invincible-class_ ships.

Nothing for it, then. He needed to end this problem now.

"Wolf, I need you to listen to me," he ordered seriously as he made his way back to his men. "Give us thirty minutes, then _glass_ the grounds again. Do I make myself clear?"

"_SIR?!_" he could hear the incredulity over the comm.. Apparently, they'd finally fixed the damn thing.

"You heard me, damn it!" he snapped as he fell in with his bodyguards. "We are running out of time, and another one of those blasts and the fleet's done for! Thirty minutes, then set the earth on fucking _fire_, Wolf! Is that clear?"

"…_Clear, sir. Clock is set…now. Good luck._"

Harry heard the transmitter make a clicking sound, indicating that the line had gone dead. Wolf was probably pissed off at him as it was, so Harry couldn't blame him. If he didn't get his men out of the blast radius in thirty minutes…well…"danger close" wasn't a close enough word for how close from them the projectiles would hit.

Harry quickly dispatched two incoming Venati by snapping his arms forward, morphing them into razor-sharp whips, before turning his attention to his sergeant. "Admiral Wolf is probably telling the others, but we've got thirty minutes to withdraw back to the lines before we get hit by fleet bombardment!"

The sergeant nodded stoically at the order. "Yes, sir," the man acknowledged. He brought up his assault rifle, ejected the empty clip, and slapped a new one in. "Orders, sir?"

Harry morphed his arms back into human form, gathering as much magic into his hands as he could. "I'll open a path, you follow."

The man nodded, and Harry expected that he gave appropriate orders via the ADST internal comms.

Deciding that Neville was probably not going to need his help, given that Ginny had deployed there—and was too far away—Harry opted for a withdrawal to Sulu's side of the field. Setting his feet into the floor so as to get a good grip on the ground, he brought his curled hands to his sides, magic visibly accumulating in his hands as his eyes burned green, magical fire.

"Ready?" he asked through gritted teeth.

The sergeant nodded, rifle hoisted to eye-height. "Always."

With a grunt, gradually growing into a yell of exertion, Harry brought up his hands sideways, then at shoulder level flung them forward, as though throwing baseballs. Except, instead of leathery sports equipment, he flung two super-charged Bludgeoning Curses down parallel paths towards Sulu's lines, effectively either crushing or flinging away Venati from their way.

"GO!" Harry yelled, the green fire from his eyes now extinguished, making a dash down the suddenly open path.

The ADSTs were quick on the uptake, too, as they immediately formed a two-man-wide column and sprinted right after him. Making sure to keep his overall speed down so as to keep in pace with the ADSTs, Harry made sure to clear the way as the Venati quickly recovered from the sudden blast of magic and tried to ambush them from the sides.

The ADSTs, thankfully, were doing their part as well, using their armament to keep the Venati at bay as they ran past them. Considering how far they were from the Imperial lines—and the amount of craters they had to navigate—the group actually had reason to worry, unlike most of the other groups. Harry had actually _specified_ being dropped practically in the middle of the Venati horde, in order to best taunt Riddle into bringing out his best warriors as he watched Harry dispatched his infamous Dark creatures with surprising ease.

Thirty minutes, then, was cutting it close.

They had already been running for 25 minutes when they saw the sky reddening, and the Imperial lines were maybe five minutes away, _at best_.

"We're not going to make it!" Harry heard one of the ADSTs shout out. It wasn't a shout of horror, either—merely of fact.

Harry knew that he could make it to the lines if he was alone, but he wasn't that type of person. He would leave no man behind. That left one option—one he _really_ didn't want to put to the test, but it was becoming apparent that they were quickly running out of options.

"Keep running!" he yelled back. He would save the option as a dead last resort. Who knows? Maybe they _would_ make it to the lines in time.

Except they didn't.

The sky was practically on fire when Harry realized there was absolutely no humanly way for the group to reach the Imperial lines before the shots came down. He toyed with the idea of banishing the ADSTs to the Imperial lines, but quickly shot that down as the mere physics of such a long banishment would end up killing the troopers on impact.

That left one choice.

He slid to a halt on the ground, his feet actually digging into the loose ground. "SCHILTROM!" he roared at his bodyguards. "ON ME! CIRCULAR SCHILTROM!"

Fortunately, his men were educated enough in military tactics to know what he meant, as they immediately switched from running back to safety to setting up a protective wall around the Duke, front-rank kneeling into position as the double-layered circle closed up.

"Consider yourselves lucky, lads," Harry said with a nervous grin, magic once again concentrating in his hands, though now open wide. He dropped to one knee and kept curled his hands into fists at his side. "You're about to witness an Airfleet bombardment at point blank range."

Then, they saw the very clouds in the sky get ripped apart as the first shot raced down to the earth, the path it left behind looking like a beam of light as it screamed through the air.

Harry's attention wasn't focused on the projectile, however. He had bigger fish to fry. Just as the shell made impact against the ground—mere milliseconds before it detonated—Harry opened his hands wide and slammed them both into the ground before him.

"_PROTEGO MAXIMA!"_

* * *

_Hogwarts Castle Great Hall…_

Seated in lotus pose in the middle of a large magical diagram written on the ground, Tom Marvolo Riddle, aka Lord Voldemort, glared at no one in particular as he felt the ground shake. He knew what had happened—the same thing that had happened to his golem army.

Clearly, his servants had, _yet again_, managed to fail him, despite the powerful weapons he provided them.

Well, this would not do. Potter needed to be exterminated once and for all. His allies would make short work of the Imperial forces in the event that Potter died, so he could afford to send his best, _non_-Venati servants to the field, since they clearly seemed to fail to grasp the workings of the castle's magical amplification.

Without breaking his pose, Voldemort brought up a magical screen before him, which quickly broadcasted the image of the Astronomy Tower's interior. There they were, his three bumbling servants—supposedly his best. Well, it was time to see whether or not they were as good as they were supposed to be, given all he had done to elevate them to their current level of power.

No free meals in this gig.

"_My Lord!_" he saw the three cloaked figures kneel to him reverently. It made Voldemort feel a little warm inside—oh, how he loved the grovelling!

Still, he sneered for good measure. "You three seem to fail to grasp the concept of _bringing down those ships_," he hissed angrily. "Can _someone_ please explain _why_ we just got attacked from the sky _again_?"

The leader among the three practically kowtowed to him as he bobbed his head up and down in apology. "My Lord, please forgive us!" he pleaded. "We…We had trouble getting the ritual to work!"

"There are _three_ of you," Voldemort hissed back, interrupting him. "Pray tell, how is it that _I_ can fire it without any trouble _by myself_, but _three of you_ are incapable of doing so?"

Considering how much of a trick question that was—since answering any way would make it sound like they thought themselves comparable to him or totally incompetent—the trio did the wise thing and stayed silent. It suited Voldemort just fine.

"You three have a new task," he hissed. "_Potter_," he spat, "has been tearing a hole in our forces, and his band of merry little automatons have been doing a grandiose job at imitating him as well on _both_ sides of their lines. I want them _gone_. Understood?"

"_Yes, my lord_," the leader stated calmly, a hint of anticipation in his voice.

"Focus on Potter," Voldemort ordered. "But make sure to take out anyone else in that ridiculous armour he made for his soldiers. I want _nothing_ to stand in the way of our invasion."

"_...and the ships?_" dared the leader to ask.

Voldemort had a calm, sinister smile on his face. "I'll deal with them," he said coldly. "But you have no reason to even _think_ about that, Crouch," he warned. "Focus on your own mission. Either come back with Potter's head, or _don't come back at all_."

There was no answer from Barty Crouch for a moment, before he put a fist to his chest and nodded. "_As you will, my lord. It shall be done_."

With that, the feed went dead, and Voldemort glanced to the side, where a couple of Venati were staring at him, seemingly torn between hunger and obedience. "Those ships in the sky are killing your brethren at an irritating rate," Voldemort noted.

The Venati growled at him, and then suddenly yelped as two chitin spikes came from the ground and impaled them, instantly snuffing out their lives. Yet, unlike the other Venati on the field, their corpses did not remain. Instead, they seemed to be sucked _into_ the spikes, until no trace of their existence remained.

"_**THE HYBRID…**_" a deep, menacing voice resounded through the Great Hall.

Voldemort nodded. "Potter," he supplied.

Whether or not the voice paid any attention to him was lost on the mage, as he watched a large shadow move in the corner of his Great Hall.

"_**WE WANT HIM.**_"

"My men will have his head, you can be sure of that," Voldemort assured the presence.

"_**ALIVE**_," it growled.

Voldemort frowned. "Alive, he will be an unstoppable threat," he reminded the creature. "He must be killed as soon as possible."

The presence gave a feral roar, but it did not serve to intimidate Voldemort, who remained in his ritualistic position.

"_**VERY WELL, RIDDLE…WE WILL LISTEN…THIS TIME…**_"

The mage felt like rolling his eyes. It was always like that with this creature. It kept making threats that the "next time," he would be uncooperative, when it really did nothing _but_ obey. One of the perks of being the most powerful summoner of Venati _ever_.

"So the Airships…?" Voldemort pressed, retuning to his original point.

The creature was silent for a moment, seemingly considering what to do. Or just not replying. Truthfully, it was hard to tell with these beasts.

"…_**MY BRETHREN WILL TAKE CARE OF THE AIR MACHINES**_," it finally said.

Voldemort smiled in satisfaction. "Good."

The beast gave another growl, but Voldemort ignored it.

Really, for being the Venati Prime, the beast truly had to learn to cooperate more.

Though, in half an hour, that wouldn't matter…

Since _he_ would be the Venati Prime.

* * *

_Post-AN: I'm very well aware that the SAS didn't actually -coin- the phrase "He Who Dares, Wins." However, given the military context of the situation, it felt appropriate that Harry refer to them, given their British status._

_Also, title reference: The Past - Dumbledore; The Present - Voldemort; The Future - Harry._

_In case that wasn't obvious.  
_


	51. Chapter XLIV: Second Stage, Go!

_AN: Let's see...I give myself...three hours before I get the first "WTF?!?!?!?!?1!111!" review. To avoid spoilers, I'll be discussing any of the problems I **imagine** will come up in said reviews. Other than that, have fun! _

_Oh, and for the record? Longest motherf****ng chapter I've written to date. Hope you enjoy it._

_Edit: Sorry. **Second** longest chapter. "Living Will" is 300 words longer.  
_

* * *

The world had ended.

Or, at least, that's what it damn well looked like from their perspective.

Staring around them, wide eyed in amazement, the ADST bodyguard detail assigned to the Duke watched as flames curved around the impressively solid bubble shield that their charge had summoned mere seconds ago. Kneeling on the ground, the Duke had a tired expression on his face as he continuously pumped more and more magic into the shield in a desperate attempt to keep it solid in the face of the overwhelming force of the Airfleet's vicious bombardment.

Even more impressive was the fact that the ground they stood on was even kept intact, given the massive craters that the shells were creating on impact. At the very foot of the shield, in fact, they could see the ground in front of it collapse as the bombing tore apart the ground at the most basic level. Only their small section seemed impervious to damage, which just caused them to give their commander admiring looks.

Not that this was something easy to pull off for said commander, however. Harry was definitely feeling the strain of keeping the shield solid in the face of multiple projectiles that each had the force of a small meteorite. He could only count his lucky stars, however, that they had not been right in the middle of the bombing, or else he would be in no condition to face Riddle later on. As it was, with them being all huddled a mere five minutes from the Imperial lines, he wasn't required to pump all of his magic into the shield, merely a continuous amount, which required him to regulate his flow of magic to an insane level.

Nonetheless, the amount of magic he _was_ pouring was quite impressive. A lesser mage would have been drained dry in seconds. However, with this display, Harry had no doubts that Riddle would cave in and send out his lieutenants—he _had_ to. After this absolute slaughter, there would be no other way to refill his ranks other than to distract the ADSTs with more powerful prey—thus the lieutenants.

For the first time since he had arrived on the ground, he allowed himself a small smile of anticipation. He knew full well that Riddle knew that his own chosen subordinates had been tampered with, which is why he fully expected the enemy lieutenants to be similarly altered. What this coming fight would show, then, is which of the two puppeteers was the superior.

This was something Harry had little doubt in—his people would prove superior; Riddle's lieutenants were, after all, a pale shadow of what Harry had Bill accomplish. A confident grin made its way on his face, even as sweat continued to build up on his forehead—a testament to how much effort he was putting in keeping the shield up, protecting the group from the torrential fire just beyond it.

He was lucky, too. With the bombardment still going strong, that meant Riddle would have to bypass him and go straight for the people he had _specifically_ enhanced for this confrontation. There would be no more variables from now on—his plan would be _perfect_.

Of course, with that confidence, he also forgot Rule Zero of _Anything_.

_Thou Shalt Not Invoke Murphy._

* * *

_Hogwarts Second Gate…_

Neville wanted to swear.

He really, _really_ did.

Not without reason, either, if one thought about it. First, he had been cut off from most of his initial troops because of enemy dragons destroying the deployable bridge. Second, he had been forced to scale a massive cliff face with very improvised scaling equipment. Third, he and what little he had left of his troops were then forced to mount a point-defence at the Second Gate _by themselves_. Fourth, the little reinforcements he got afterwards were coat-tailed by the coming of the forces of _Hell_. Fifth, he had nearly gotten himself killed in a Venati ambush.

And sixth, for the _second time_, the Airfleet had decided to bomb the planet out of existence.

Or, at least, that's what it both felt and looked like, from his vantage point on the gate walls. Like the others who'd been defending the front of the gate, Neville had taken cover behind one of the parapets, waiting the bombardment out as it proceeded to render anything remotely physical into ash and glass.

Quite unfortunately, the rear of the gate was not so lucky in catching a break. The fact that the grounds were being annihilated merely served to give Neville a chance to rotate in some of the less weary ADSTs from the walls to help out the rear lines. He only kept one of them behind at all times—the ADST corporal who's vocal cords seemed to be suited for a drill instructor gig.

Well, that wasn't true. He didn't _just_ keep her. He'd pretty much assigned Susan to stay near him at all times, too. He'd already nearly lost her once—he wasn't about to let it happen again. The redhead, however, didn't seem to appreciate the gesture, as she had been sent down to specifically fight the Venati.

Hell, even as they sat against the parapets, she wouldn't stop glaring at him—her helmet off—for his decision to keep her away from the action. Another sigh passed through his lips. Was their feud really never going to be truly over?

"Are you ever going to let this go?" he asked her wearily.

"Not until you let me go down there and _do my job_," she replied angrily.

"I thought I lost you once," Neville defended himself. "I'm not about to risk that again."

"Oh, _sure_, because _I_ never thought you were dead…for like, say…two _weeks_?"

"I was on a mission!"

"So am I!"

"This is different! _My _mission didn't involve dealing with creepy, end-of-the-world-esque creatures from _Hell_!"

Susan rolled her eyes. "Oh, sure, bring _that_ up, why don't you?" she snarked. "Just because my enemies happened to be stronger and _deadlier_ than the ones you had to face in your mission doesn't mean you have the right to tell me not to fight!"

Neville goggled at her. "Are…Are you suggesting I'm _jealous_?!"

Susan made a visible show of restraining herself from rolling her eyes. "Why else would you be so bull-headed about not letting me fight?" she demanded, confirming his assumption. "You're just worried I'll outdo you!"

Of course, Susan never thought any such thing, but the moment he had asked her if she thought he was jealous, Susan couldn't help but immediately jump on _that_ bandwagon and drive it for all it was worth. Neville, after all, was intensely competitive, even if that rarely showed. Moreover, they both believed themselves to be elite warriors, and such a challenge served to merely instigate his pride.

"Oh, you are _so_ on!" he hissed, his hands now on the stone floor underneath him and pushing himself to his feet; Susan was equally fast in scrambling to her feet.

Both adults (even if their argument didn't seem worthy of that denomination) glared at each other as they stood a mere foot apart; Susan in her onyx-black ADST armour, and Neville in his army uniform. They seemed a personification of the rivalry between the First Legion and the rest as they stood there.

The two maintained their mutual glare for a few seconds before they broke their gaze and reached for their weapons of choice; Susan her fully automatic assault rifle, Neville his handgun and wand.

Neville turned his gaze to the fighting beneath them, his hands automatically reloading and readying his handgun, while Susan checked her rifle to make sure it was both loaded and ready for combat.

"First to a hundred?" he suggested calmly, as though what the two were planning to do _wasn't_, in any way, stupid or suicidal.

"Sure," came Susan's equally cool response, a loud click sounding as she pulled back the knob that ejected the last empty casing in the rifle's chamber and loaded another one.

"Stakes?"

"Loser does whatever the winner wants for a week."

"You're on."

* * *

The fighting at the rear of the Second Gate was as pitched as the fighting to the front had been, with a distinct difference.

Quite simply, there wasn't a _wall_ between the Imperial troops and the Venati. More specifically, the Venati had pretty much rendered useless all the traps set up between the Imperial lines and the Venati horde through sheer numbers. Even now, most of the ADSTs at the front of the rearguard could see the pits full to the brim with Venati bodies, which served to give their still-live comrades a bridge over the hole.

Nonetheless, despite the lack of anymore barriers between them and the Venati, the Imperial troops were skilfully able to keep the Venati at bay. However, there was no guarantee that this trend would continue. Ammunition wasn't infinite, after all, and there was always the fear that the weapons would lock up.

In this kind of situation, some might even suggest launching an attack, in order to inflict such casualties on the enemy that they would cease their own attacks in order to recuperate. The problem with _that_ particular plan, however, was that the Second Gate garrison was too small. Any losses they acquired—and they _did_ suffer casualties from the continuous waves—was deeply felt within the defence of the gate's rear.

So it was quite surprising to the defenders when the ground before their lines—no more than ten meters away, in fact—seemed to shine brightly all of a sudden and then detonated in a fantastic explosion that made the defenders worry that the Airfleet had decided to just glass _them_ too.

Their worries were put to rest, however, as two blurs dashed past the shocked front lines and into the cloud of dust that had been kicked up by the explosion. The Imperials' initial reaction had been to fire, but upon realizing that the two blurs had come from _within_ their own lines, they had restrained themselves, lest they kill the people involved. Then again, there was an equal chance that the two people who had just dashed past them would die _anyway_, considering how monumentally _stupid_ such a charge would be with only two people.

Regardless, the Imperial lines opened fire within seconds. They did not have the luxury of waiting and seeing what would happen before continuing their defence, after all. If a single Venati crossed into their trenches, there was a very real chance everything would collapse. They could only hope that the two warriors who had sped into the fray would be spared from a bullet in the back. Getting killed by friendly fire in the fight to save humanity just didn't seem like the best way to go.

For Neville and Susan, the solution to that problem was a permanent anti-ballistics shield that coated their skin. It would be worthless against the Venati claws and spells, but against regular bullets, it would serve better than three-inch steel. In fact, it had been the reason for the creation of the ME bullets in the first place. With the mages all but crushed under the might of the Empire, however, it was once again possible to use normal ammunition, especially since the Venati did not seem to have anything ready to counter the ballistic projectiles. Not that they seemed to care, however. They had the sheer weight of numbers to effectively ignore the threat of kinetic projectiles.

Sprinting towards the Venati, Neville and Susan seemed to take the creatures by surprise, though that was quickly brushed aside as the hellspawn charged the duo with vicious glee. Their horrific mandibles spread open as they let out howls of predatory anticipation, and Neville and Susan only mentally hesitated for a second as they faced the incoming wave of ferocious beasts.

Neville, however, wasn't a Brigadier for no reason. Thinking quickly, he gathered as much magical energy as he thought he could sustain in his hand, to the point where it even physically manifested itself as wispy, green fire coating his appendage, and leapt forward, magically-enhanced hand raised in anticipation for a strike. The target, however, was not a particular Venati, however, but the very ground itself.

With a ferocious shout, he slammed his magically-coated hand into the ground and watched in satisfaction as the very earth seemed to crack from the impact. If nothing else, the Venati directly around the point of impact were suddenly and violently thrown back from the point-of-impact shockwave. So suddenly violent was it that the Venati closest to the fan-like crater did not rise again from their lying positions over two meters away from where they had been standing.

Allowing himself a glance back at Susan and a cocky smirk, Neville raised five fingers. "That's five already to me," he gloated.

Susan scowled, not to be outdone. Raising her rifle, she quickly picked off a Venati that had wanted to take advantage of Neville's gloating to kill the Brigadier, followed them by five more kills.

As Neville turned around to see what she'd shot, Susan showed a very self-satisfying smile. "That's _six_ for me," she countered.

Neville couldn't help the grin that was forming on his face. This was more like it. This, the sense of competition between two elite fighters—this was what he'd missed the most when he and Susan had been apart.

"Better not fall behind, then!" he answered with a cocky grin as he turned back to the Venati horde, momentarily halted due to the sudden show of strength from what they had assumed would be easy prey.

Twirling his wand with his fingers, Neville quickly came to the conclusion that the only viable way to be the first to a hundred was to use overwhelming power, not skill. Skill would net him a few magnificent kills, but would make him fall behind Susan, whose automatic rifle gave her the luxury of fast kills with minimum effort. Suddenly stopping the twirling motion, he pulled back his arm as far as he could, then swung it in an arc-motion before him, a vicious smirk on his face.

"_DIFFINDO!_" he cried, letting loose a wide arc of blue energy that raced forward with all the speed of a hurricane wind.

The spell did its job magnificently. The Venati, caught off guard by the sudden spell, were cut down by the dozen by the powerful spell. Neville grinned. The _Diffindo_ curse was one of the most versatile spells there was. Depending on the used amount of magic, it could do anything from precision cuts to catastrophic damage, like he'd just performed.

His kill count was now at twenty. However, seeing Susan rip into the Venati with her rifle made it clear to Neville that he could not stand around at any point, if he was to win. Of course, even among all this killing, he could still feel the occasional bullets from the Imperial lines bouncing off his ballistic shield. He also made it a point not to count those he killed _after_ a bullet had hit them.

Unlike Susan, Neville found comfort in using his magic. Even with the Empire standing triumphant over the ashes of the Old Order, Neville could not forswear his magic the way Susan could. While she still used it occasionally, it was as though she was ashamed of her heritage because of the Ministry and the Order's treachery against the Crown. Neville, for his part, understood that the actions of the misguided should not and could not reflect on him. Harry, for instance, did not forswear his magic, and _he_ was the architect of the Empire's march of triumph.

He was a mage, pure and simple. He was born with a gift for manipulating the forces of nature, and he was damned if he would give that up just because some idiots could not face the coming wave of change and instead chose to betray the very people they were supposedly keeping safe through ignorance.

Susan, for her part, hated her heritage. She hadn't always, though. When she was at Hogwarts, she had fully enjoyed her gifts, and used them almost to the point where one could consider it abuse. Hell, _all_ mages were brought up that way. They used magic for everything—cooking, cleaning, fixing, packing, stripping, and even for putting _on_ clothes. It was ridiculous, in hindsight. It was as though the fact that they had these wonderful gifts gave them the right to become a nation of layabouts! Of course, her distaste for her heritage did not come until her entry into Ginny Weasley's little group of Royalist spies and saboteurs. She, like many others, had assumed that the group was acting along the lines of an appreciation group, much like she heard some Muggles congregated to celebrate and discuss particular people or historical periods.

Instead, she was swept away with the full magnificence of non-mage civilization. She listened avidly as she became aware of the thousands of years of budding human civilization far outstripped anything she had seen in mage society. She became aware that while the magical nations remained isolated and backwards, the world around them evolved at rates they could never match. The non-mages, far from letting their lack of supernatural gifts hold them down, had striven to overcome nature itself in their quest for total dominance over the small planet they called Earth.

She heard the tales of empires, great civilizations built on fire, blood, and steel, typically through the sheer force of will of one man. She heard of young men, driving their nation's borders to the far corners of the world, and she felt ashamed.

How could she not? For years, she had been taught that mages were superior due to their gifts. Her aunt had never stated that the non-mages were in any way less human, of course, but there was always a slight supremacist hint in all mage teachings anyway. Hell, Professor Snape's beginning speech at the very start of every year was almost an arrogant tirade of the superiority of potions, while Muggle chemistry, on the other hand, had already conquered and surpassed many of the achievements he had described. They called the Avada Kedavra the most deadly spell in the world, while the non-mages had created objects about the size of Hagrid which could flatten entire cities.

Where were their achievements? Where were their great Empires? What did mage society have to offer a world that had already surpassed them in nearly every way? They had gone into _outer space_, while mages still used _candles_ as a way of lighting up a place.

But the real hatred towards her heritage did not come then. It came when the coup happened. When she realized that her entire home had been overtaken by a bunch of corrupt, cruel monsters who saw themselves as nature's finest creature, by virtue of a single gift. A gift that, if she wasn't wrong, Bill and Harry were working hard on to ensure would no longer be limited to a certain few.

Personally, she didn't know how she felt about that. Magic, in her opinion, was dangerous. She realized that during the coup. The ability to immediately transport oneself from place to place with almost minimal effort was not something everyone should have. It was just asking for trouble. However, she was certain that the duo knew what they were doing, and trusted them to ensure that the gifts would not be abused.

For her part, however, she would have none of it. She didn't care that Neville used his magic—it was his right. She would not use hers, however. Not unless she absolutely had to. She had not during the American campaign, and she would not here.

Her rifle raised, she dispatched Venati after Venati with deadly efficiency, quickly racking up her kill count with small bursts of fire that ensured her ammunition would last long enough for her to achieve her goal. Behind her, she felt a rush of wind, and while she killed the Venati directly in front of her, she also chanced a glance back, and saw Neville unleashing a supercharged Bludgeoning charm that blew a hole in the Venati horde.

The numbers weren't thinning, however. If anything, they seemed to be getting denser as they moved forward. Some of the Venati outright ignored them, too, as they dashed past them towards the Imperial lines—their goal not forgotten. It was only those who stayed to fight them that Susan killed. Not out of sympathy or gratitude, but because they were the easiest and most predictable creatures.

It amazed her, really, that such vicious predators could hold themselves to such high esteem as to be considered arrogance. One would think that after thousands of years of preying on sentient societies, they would understand the virtue of not underestimating their opponents. But then, if she understood Harry correctly, they had never lost an invasion before.

She immediately returned her attention to the Venati in front of her, casually riddling them with bullets as they got close to her, while the main horde seemed content in letting them march their way deeper into their ranks. Susan could understand the strategic thought behind that, anyway. The deeper they got, the more likely she and Neville would meet more and more Venati willing to face them. Furthermore, the deeper they got, the closer they came to the summoning portals, which she knew that neither she nor Neville could close. In fact, neither could the aerial bombardment still ongoing. All _that_ was doing was killing whatever Venati was on the field, but was doing little to no damage to the portals themselves.

"Susan!"

She looked to the side, just after killing another creature, to see that Neville and she had become separated by a larger margin than she'd realized. It then suddenly dawned on her that this was another reason for the Venati to let them by. By doing so, they could subtly widen their charging numbers little by little, until she was unknowingly forced to separate herself from Neville far enough where neither could provide the other with aid.

This was most definitely a problem.

"_Fuck_," she swore under her breath, her mic synthesising her voice through her helmet. She needed to get back to Neville, but the only way was to run sideways, straight through the charging column of Venati that had thus far ignored her. To do so was suicide, however. Even if they'd ignored her wilfully thus far, running amongst them to get to Neville would be an invitation for them to flank her through sheer weight of numbers. Even _if _the conquest of the Imperial lines was more important to them, they would not pass up the chance to kill her if she gave them such an obvious invitation to do so.

The situation was quickly taken out of her hands, however.

Stuck in her quandary, she did her best to keep the Venati at bay, only to have her vision suddenly disappear as a blinding flash of light exploded. Wincing at the brightness, she quickly shut her eyes, only to then hear someone shout out at her.

"BACK! JUMP BACK!"

Instinctively, she did as commanded, and just in time, as it were. She felt a rush of hot air pass right in front of her, and she dared open her eyes into a squint, before they expanded into a shocked gaze as she watched a pillar of flame rush past her. Within the pillar itself, she could see the shadowy figures of the Venati that had lunged forward to kill her in her blindness, before they slowly disintegrated into nothingness. The howling of the burning creatures was terrible to hear, but she couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction as she watched the foul beings burn away to ashes.

Turning her head, she saw Neville holding his wand at the tip of the row of fire, while his other hand worked his pistol in order to keep his exposed flank safe from the Venati. Once he saw that Susan was okay, however, the Brigadier dropped the spell and, with skilful footwork, turned and unleashed a vicious Cutting Curse at a row of advancing Venati, slicing away their lives in an instant. More importantly, however, there was now a way for the two to link up, as the advancing Venati column had been stopped by the pillar of fire.

She didn't need him to tell her what to do, and he knew it. Thus, in silent agreement, she dashed sideways and took advantage of the column's momentary halt to quickly make her way to his side, her rifle always bursting with fire as she took down as many Venati as she could on her way. With just as much skill as he'd shown, she turned and bumped into his back roughly, her rifle firing off two more bursts as another two Venati crumpled to the ground.

"That's forty," she told him simply. "And that nifty spell _doesn't count_," she added crossly.

Neville couldn't help but grin as he dispatched five more with another burst of spell fire. "You're just jealous," he taunted. "That's sixty," he then said, killing two more with pistol fire.

"Cheater," she complained.

Neville barked out a laugh, before firing two more rounds from his pistol, then hearing it click. "Damn, out of ammo," he said with a jovial grin. He quickly sheathed the pistol and focused some of his magical reserves into his now-free hand. "You?"

Susan called up her HUD for a quick scan of her ammunition reserves. "I'm good for another six hundred rounds."

Neville whistled, impressed. "Been economizing your shots, have you?" He snuffed out four more Venati and then used his magically-enhanced fist to punch another so hard that its head collapsed entirely.

"A good shot needs only one bullet to make his kill," she told him simply, blasting away another Venati with remarkable ease. With how well they were both doing, one might have even assumed the two had trained all their lives for this.

"The lads are probably going to love us for making their job this much easier," Neville commented lightly as he vaporized another two and slammed another's head into the ground such that it resembled more a paste than a creature. By now, his uniform was positively _covered_ in the blood and bits of the foul beings.

Susan snorted. "Lazy bastards," she muttered in agreement, killing another four. Then, without warning, she stiffened as a _really_ bad feeling made her spine grow cold.

Neville seemed to sense the sudden stiffness at his back and turned his head curiously. "Susan? What's—"

He never had a chance to finish, as a spell connected with his exposed side and blasted him away, an explosion of blood and gore showering Susan's onyx armour. Susan's eyes widened in horrified shock as she realized what had happened in less than a second. Turning around, she could see Neville's crumpled body lying face down on the ground, his eyes, for all intents and purposes, glazed over. His left side looked like something had taken a bite out of it, and the exposed organs sickened her more than the carnage she had seen him inflict on the Venati.

Neville was dead.

Susan didn't know how long she stared at the immobile body of her lover. Maybe it was seconds, or minutes, or even days. Everything around her just vanished from her mind, and all that was left was her and his cooling body. There was no sound. No smell. Nothing else but she and him.

And despair.

"No."

The word came softly at first. Her lips had just parted barely more than a millimetre, but the sound that escaped them was clear as daylight. Then, she repeated it some more times, each time with greater and greater force of denial, until it was as though she was willing the very universe to rewind Neville's death so that she could save him.

"No!" she was screaming now, her duties completely forgotten as she dropped her rifle and went to his side, sliding into a kneel beside him. She hastily grabbed her helmet and almost _tore_ it off in her haste. Quickly, she pulled him onto her lap and cradled him in her arms, shaking him slightly. "No…no, no, no, no, no!" she quietly sobbed and begged at the same time. "Neville, please! No!"

She didn't even register the fact that the Venati were not advancing on her and Neville. Instead, it seemed more like they were ignoring them altogether, going around them as they rushed the Imperial lines, now unimpeded in their task.

"Neville…" she whined in despair. "Neville!" she started shouting his name. "_NEVILLE!_ WAKE UP! WAKE UP, NEVILLE!"

His still corpse made no move to answer her, his eyes blindly looking up at the blue sky, frozen in time.

"Don't leave me…" she sobbed as she bent her head down onto his bloodied chest, her cries muffled by his shirt. She couldn't care less that she was covering herself in Venati gore, either. "You can't do this to me, baby, not again!"

All at once, with the weight of a freight train, she could feel the guilt of having ignored him since his return at Harrisburg hitting her. Why had she been so obstinate? Why couldn't she have just accepted that he'd done what he was ordered to do? They could have had the months between then and now together—happy!

She had wasted it all. All of it on rage, on betrayal, on…on nothing! She could have had more months with him, and now he was dead! She could have _married him_ in that time, and now he was dead! Someone had killed him. She knew that. It had not been a Venati that had ended his glorious life. Someone had _deliberately _killed him with a spell.

"Oh my…"

She paid the new voice no attention. Immediately, she knew this was his killer, and she felt something dark build up in the pit of her stomach. Something primitive and feral and violent.

"I got him good, didn't I?" snarked the newcomer. "Oh well, serves him right, blood traitor."

She had always assumed she'd felt fury before now. There were a couple of occasions when she had even told Neville that she was furious with him, and she had gotten into fights with others before when she was allegedly furious over some insult or slight. But this was different from those times. She could recognize it as a whole new level of anger. If what she had felt previously amounted to fury, then there wasn't a word in a language she knew that could describe the primitive rage that was coursing through her system now. Her teeth were grinding against each other so painfully, she had even managed to numb herself from it. Her open eyes could see nothing but red. Not just the blood on Neville's torn uniform, but even those areas that were _not_ red seemed to become monochromatic.

"Guess you're next, huh?" the newcomer kept talking, apparently either oblivious to the wrath building up within the redhead, or simply enjoying the sight of her mourning her lost lover. "You've been a very bad girl, you know. The Dark Lord even had to ask us to come out and kill you all. You should be honoured."

"Shut up."

She didn't need to turn to know that the man grinned at her response. They always did. So cocky, so sure of their own power. They understood _nothing_.

"Whatever," he dismissed lightly. "You should be honoured to die by my hand. I, who am a lieutenant of the greatest Dark Lord ever to walk this earth! I, Anto—"

"_Shut up._"

This time he did, as he himself felt a measure of trepidation run down his spine. His grin slipped into a wary frown as he watched the redhead almost reverently lay down the body of the man he'd just killed onto the barren and bloody ground. There was something about her that made Dolohov doubt his chances. It wasn't lack of trust in his lord's "upgrades," but rather the fact that he could feel an awe-inspiring power radiating from the redhead.

"Dolohov, right?" she suddenly asked, still kneeling by her boyfriend's body.

He gave her a cautious nod. "That's right, blood traitor."

He watched her nod once. Then, slowly, she got to her feet, her back still to him.

"You know, Harry told me he'd given Neville a massive boost in power before sending him down here," her tone was void of any emotion or inflection. It was like hearing a computer talk. "Guess that didn't work."

Dolohov said nothing, instead keeping his wand drawn and ready to curse the little tart if she tried anything. He'd let her have her last moments before killing her.

"I never told him…" she continued, still in her monotone. "But Harry did the same for me."

Dolohov had but a moment to widen his eyes before he first felt, _then_ saw the blast of angry blue energy blast him back a good ten meters. Landing on his back, he lay there, dazed, as he wondered just what the _hell_ had just hit him. He'd been a mage for over a good five decades, and he'd _never_ seen or felt such a spell before.

Groaning as he slowly lifted himself up onto his elbows, his eyes widened as he saw the redhead standing away from him, still by the boy's still form. Slowly, her armour was peeling off of her, falling chunk by chunk. Only the breastplate and her lower armour remained, leaving bare skin visible in all the exposed places. It wasn't to be admired, though.

Blue, mechanical lines seemed to race all over the exposed skin, glowing brightly as they appeared in every geometric shape. It was like looking at a technical blueprint for a computer chip. Her face was not spared, either, as the bright blue lines framed her face, looking like vicious, glowing scars.

But the most fearsome change?

Her eyes.

Her brown eyes were gone, replaced by blue, wispy, ethereal fire that _reeked_ of magic.

Her hand was outstretched before her, the focus of the spell that had tossed him away like a rag doll.

This was bad. This was _so_ _very bad._

Susan Bones was _furious_.

"You should feel honoured, Dolohov," she said in her monotone, deliberately throwing back his words at him as her left hand _crackled_ with the amount of magical energy being gathered there. "I'm going to _kill you._"

* * *

_Hogwarts Castle…_

Ginny felt Neville's death the moment it happened, racing up the walls of the main keep. The sudden shock of his death had almost made her lose her focus and fall off the wall, but she was quick enough to regain her concentration and keep going, until she finally reached the top and stayed there, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Neville had been a close friend. He had been her _first_ friend at Hogwarts.

She could remember when he and she had first started the Royalist group in this very school. They had been thick as thieves, enjoying the feeling it gave them to be holding such a grave secret within the very den of wolves they sought to undermine. She remembered how sweet and kind he was, and she was later not oblivious to the crush he had on her. She remembered that before she and Harry even grew close enough to feel romantically interested in each other, she and Neville _had_ gone out a few times to test the waters, but had decided to settle for friendship. It was thanks to those dates that they were later comfortable enough to simulate a fake relationship when she and Harry grew close, thus keeping her off the Headmaster's radar.

He had been at her side through thick and thin, her loyal friend and companion. When she had left Hogwarts, he had not hesitated one second, despite leaving behind a very wealthy and proud heritage within mage society. Even loving Susan since those last few years, he even wilfully restrained himself and kept up the faux relationship with her out of sheer loyalty, and she respected him for that.

She loved him. As a friend, yes; but she loved him all the same.

She had always assumed Neville would be one of those who would live until after the war. She always imagined him as a cheerful old grandfather, surrounded by his children and grandchildren and telling them exciting stories about his younger days. He seemed the type. She could imagine him going on long walks with Susan, hand in hand as they finally enjoyed the peace they had all been working so hard to achieve.

And now, in a moment, all of that was gone.

Ginny couldn't even begin to imagine how Susan must be feeling. For all the rage the other redhead had shown towards her lover, Ginny knew that Susan deeply loved Neville with all her heart. She even remembered how crushed Susan had been when Neville had been presumed dead, prior to the battle at Harrisburg. Ginny shivered. She sincerely hoped that Susan had not been present when Neville had fallen.

If she was, then Ginny prayed for her to find Neville's killer, and _butcher_ him.

If she didn't, then Ginny would be _all too glad_ to do so herself, in memory of her fallen friend.

She quickly put a stop to that line of thinking as she felt her left hand give an involuntary shake. Grasping it with her right hand, she looked at it and saw faint, blue vein-like lines appear on the back of it, causing her to frown.

It was a quietly kept fact that out of all the people her husband had chosen to endow with his curious new magical empowerment, _she_ had been the only one who's procedure had not happened without problems. It wasn't anything drastically fatal, nor would it hinder her in any inconvenient way, but it _was_ something that she felt slightly humiliated of.

"Damnit," she growled under her breath. She hated that she, out of those Harry had chosen, had somehow failed the procedure. She had been frantic to ask Harry about it, but he had kept that easy smile on his face and lovingly comforted her that it was nothing serious. She knew better than to doubt him, but it still implanted a seed of doubt in herself that she couldn't shake off, no matter how hard she tried.

All this meant, however, was that she couldn't let go of her emotional control. If she went into a rage, she would have to consciously make corrections in all her moves so that the tremors wouldn't throw off her overall killing efficiency. Well, thankfully, she wouldn't have to fight anyone as skilled as Narcissa again. The deceased Malfoy matriarch had been quite possibly the toughest fight she had _ever_ had to deal with, spars against Harry notwithstanding.

Thankfully, her current mission had no such fights in the works. Instead, she was to find and eliminate the ritual circle that was powering the MS 5 blasts that were tearing apart the bombarding Airfleet. Harry seemed certain that the cause of the blasts was a ritual, and according to his calculations, it was likely that the target would be at the Astronomy Tower, which happened to also be the tallest tower in the castle complex.

Gazing upwards, she looked at her target building with a small amount of trepidation. Heights didn't scare here—that wasn't it. No, rather it was the fact that she _knew_, for a fact, that Riddle was awake; quite possibly less than a couple dozen yards from where she was. Thankfully, it didn't seem like the Dark Lord knew where she was, or else was ignoring her presence, which worked just fine for her.

Using magic to lighten _and_ speed up her footwork, she quickly raced down the shingled roof, making her way first up to the back of the main keep, then to her left. Fifty meters and she would be within jumping distance to the side of the Astronomy Tower.

Halfway there, however, she suddenly jumped slightly to the side, just in time to avoid getting skewered by the sudden appearance of chitin-like spikes on the roof. Without betraying or losing any cool, she crouched down, one hand on the roof beneath her, as she observed several shadows form on the roof, from which several Venati were emerging. This was most certainly new. She idly wondered if Harry knew about this.

"Should of known it wasn't going to be that easy," she muttered, two flicks of her wrists releasing her replaced, much more highly reinforced steel assassination blades. "Don't suppose you'll just let me pass?"

The creatures answered by snarling at her, and she noticed that they seemed a might leaner and smaller than the average Venati. Perhaps a sub-breed? Again, she filed that away for her mission report; though she wondered if there were more she should investigate.

The beasts threw themselves at her, claws first, and Ginny was glad to see that despite being quicker and obviously more agile, these Venati were still no match for her. With quick, surgical strikes, she calmly impaled each of them in the skull with her blades, always making her way further down the rooftop towards her goal.

By the time she had reached her optimal jumping point, there were twenty Venati corpses strewn behind her, and not a single new crease or scratch on her robes. To be honest, she felt a little disappointed—was this really the great enemy she had to fear? With a sigh, she gathered her magic at her feet and jumped off the main keep roof towards the tower, easily latching onto its side with her hands as she grasped the centuries-old stonework.

With expert grace, she pulled herself further and further up the tower, keeping a steady pace as her feet and hands expertly sought out cracks and jutting stonework to provide herself with adequate grip and support. As she climbed her way up, she studiously kept clear of the windows, just in case there were patrols within the structure. Instead, she would often circumvent them entirely, such that by the time she had reached the open-ended top of the tower, she had circled the tower's circumference twice over.

Even though she was good at this sort of thing, however, it didn't mean that she wouldn't tire from it. Thus, when she reached the top, she felt a wave of relief hit her as she pulled herself over the parapets and landed on the top of the tower in a crouch, her arms held to her front, ready to deploy her hidden blades at a moment's notice.

With great care, she examined her surroundings and used every inch of her assassination expertise to ensure that she wasn't walking into a trap. The _last_ thing she needed was to walk into the ritual room and get surrounded from all sides by the enemy. Even _she_ had her limits, after all. With a silent movement of her left hand, she brought it before her and, curling all but her index and middle fingers, she whispered the incantation for her desired spell.

"_Sensus_."

Without any sound, a small, radar-like image formed up before her eyes, giving the magical outline of the entire complex. It was a nifty spell that she'd created for her assassination work. Basically, like the radar, it would ping off of magical signatures, thereby giving her an precise location and power-levels of all enemies in range. Quietly, she counted up the dots on her image, grimacing at the numbers that seemed to be drowning the area around the Second Gate. She felt a little guilty when she felt relieved that the numbers near her own position were much, _ much_ smaller.

"Twenty," she whispered to herself. Fortunately, it seemed as though the magical signatures were separated into smaller groups—no doubt as patrols. There were ten, however, gathered in the chamber she was assigned to go to, however. No doubt a guard detail for the ritual circle.

For a few seconds, Ginny closed her eyes, mentally going through every way she could pull off this assignment. Going down the stairs would be the least direct way, and also the most predictable. Yet, if her sensory spell was correct, it would also take her away from any patrols. Blasting her way down, straight through the roof, was another way—the most direct, in fact. However, she had two floors to go down on, and upon breaking through the very top of the tower, she would inevitably alert the Venati patrols in time for them to return to the chamber. Her third option was to scale down the tower again, look for a window, and get in that way. It was the middle ground in terms of directness, and it would avoid the patrols altogether, but at the same time would severely limit her escape routes if anything went south.

Where it any other assassin, the choice would have been simple—take the third option. The average Imperial Assassin was brought up to complete their mission, regardless of personal consequences. Thus, lack of escape routes would not be a problem for them—merely incentive to finish their mission as quickly as possible. For Ginny, it was different. She _founded_ the Imperial Assassins. She was their master, and thus had not been brought up with them. She had _a lot_ waiting for her back home. She had a daughter, a husband, and a family to walk back to. Going in all suicidal-like would be incredibly heartless of her.

Still, she understood that she needed to make a choice, and quickly. Every second she dallied meant that the circle could once again be used to take down more Imperial airships. She grit her teeth as she opened her eyes, her mind made up.

"Fuck it," she hissed, turning her head towards the parapets. "Option three it is."

However, just as she was about to straighten up to move back the way she came, she felt her instincts scream at her to dodge, which she expertly did with an impromptu roll to the side, finishing up in a crouched, ready stance, her two hidden blades now visible.

Where she had been standing a second ago there now was a vicious, chitin blade impaled into the ground. Had she been any slower, it would have gone straight through her heart. Looking up, she saw a figure at the other end of the chitinous blade racing down from the skies. This was her attacker. With a boost to her limbs, she quickly rolled out of a second strike, and then a third as the attacker neared the top of the tower. It was only when her attacker landed that Ginny recognized her enemy, and let out a small groan of exasperation.

"_You_ again?" she cried out, half in exasperation, half in incredulity. "How many times do I have to kill you before you just _stay_ dead?!"

Standing before her was Narcissa Malfoy, _yet again_. A few changes had taken place in the blonde woman's appearance, however. Her pale blue eyes were now covered by a silken, white piece of cloth that surrounded her head. Her robes had been changed as well—which was understandable, given their state following their last fight—but Ginny could still see the hint of vast number of bandages at her neckline. It was clear that _however _Narcissa had survived, it had been a close thing.

"Like I told you once, _whore_, it'll take more than you to take me down!" spat the blonde as she stood there, her brows scrunching up as she gave an eyeless glare.

With surprising accuracy, Narcissa's arms—or rather, those chitinous tentacle-blades that replaced her limbs—lashed out at her, causing Ginny to have to flip backwards several times as she was forced from position to position by the incredibly fast attacks. When she felt her back hit the parapets, however, Ginny simply rolled sideways, demonstrating her exceptional athleticism by dodging the blades with expert aerobics. She would crouch beneath one strike, then use one foot to launch herself sideways, before then using her hand to make a one-handed handstand as both blades raced to either of her sides.

With her free hand, she lashed out at the tentacle blades, trying to sever them from Narcissa's control. Unfortunately, it seemed that the chitinous material was just as strong as Harry's, which confirmed her suspicions that Narcissa had, _somehow_, been fused with a Venati.

"_Shit_," she hissed as she back-flipped away from another strike, landing harshly on the tentacle blade that had been trying to spear her. With all her might, she thrust down onto the tentacle with her hidden blades, with predictable results. She swore as she both felt and saw the blades break. Left with no hidden weapons, she drew her melee sabre that hung at her side. It shamed her to use the weapon, as an assassin was supposed to only ever draw it if their cover was blown—which in turn reeked of incompetence. She knew that was an unfair assessment, considering that her opponent was half-Venati, but the shame remained true.

Thus, with the goal of avenging her lost honour, she grasped the sword's hilt tightly as she held it in front of her in a perfect _kenjutsu_ stance. Every assassin had their own style of sword fighting, with some being outright stance-less, but she had adopted the Japanese normalized fencing stance for her own following her assignments to Japan before the Empire had been reconvened.

Narcissa, for her part, seemed amused at the action. "You think that little knife of yours is going to cut where your hidden blades didn't?" she mocked, her tentacle blades rearing up at her sides. Then, with her expression twisting in unrestrained fury, she launched the tentacles forward, ready to end her rival's life. "_DIE FOR YOUR ARROGANCE!_"

Ginny felt disappointed by the attack, however. It was a textbook blind attack, and she easily parried the first tentacle and then the second with minimal effort. What she _didn't_ expect, however, was to see a _third_ tentacle suddenly rush at her as she blocked the second.

She wasn't the best for nothing, however.

With a feminine grunt, she pushed aside the second tentacle and swung up her blade to divert the third tentacle's attack upwards. The fact that it did seemed to confirm another suspicion of Ginny's. The tentacles, probably due to their chitinous nature, were extremely linear in their attacks. While it did seem like they could bend, the angle of curvature was quite wide, meaning that she didn't have to fear a sudden attack at her back if she passed the edge of one.

Confident with her newfound information, she launched herself forward, now that all three tentacles had passed her. To her surprise, two more shot forward from her body, making for a total of five tentacles now in the fight. Without so much as a flinch, Ginny half-turned on one foot and launched herself in the air diagonally, spinning in the air just as the two tentacles passed by her harmlessly, merely cutting strands of hair or cloth as they raced by lethally.

Once on the ground again, she resumed her run at Narcissa, whose sightless eyes seemed to be somehow tracking through the bandages. This was new. Ginny had never known that Venati, or hybrids for that matter, didn't need sight to see. Or did they? Maybe her enemy was using the other senses to track her, such as sound or smell. Maybe the tentacles emitted a sort of sonar signal around them that let her know where Ginny was.

Whatever the reason was for her ability to track her, however, Ginny was not deterred in her attack. Despite being only a couple of meters away from her target, she knew full well that the tentacles had enough time to curve by now that they could strike her at her back if she didn't move in quickly and finished this fight.

Keeping her sabre angled upwards down by the side of her legs as she ran forward, Ginny glared at the blonde as she came within striking distance. "Third time's the charm!" she taunted. "Try to _stay_ dead this time!"

With a sudden stop to her run, she used the accumulated kinetic force to swing up her sabre, aiming to bisect the blonde and thus end her life once and for all. To her horror, however, Narcissa seemed to smile at the attack. Before she could even realize what had happened, _five_ more tentacles burst out from Narcissa's chest beneath her robes, two of them deflecting the sword strike and the other three racing for Ginny's vital points.

With a desperate curse, she jumped backwards, only barely avoiding getting stabbed in the heart, neck, and liver. However, this didn't seem to do much to dissuade the tentacles, as they suddenly raced at her with unprecedented grace and mobility. Ginny swore.

She'd fallen for the oldest trick in the book.

Coming to this realization, she quickly knew that her back was now severely exposed as well. Narcissa had deliberately made her attacks linear to lure Ginny into the optimal kill zone—one where she would be surrounded by the _highly_ mobile tentacle blades.

A quick glance behind her confirmed this. The other three tentacle blades were racing towards her back, and with five more at her front, it seemed to Ginny that unless she thought up of something _now_, she was going to be unequivocally _dead_.

Not for the first time, she felt ashamed of herself for her lack of success. She was supposed to be the best assassin in the Imperial Assassin's College, but another person uneducated in the dogma of assassination had outclassed her. To be fair, that meant that Narcissa was just as unpredictable as Ginny herself was, but it also meant that Ginny _should_ have known this and accounted for it.

As a flurry of options raced through her mind—all of them quickly rejected as improbable, if not impossible—Ginny finally came to a conclusion that she didn't like. She would have to abandon her assassin training and go with the gift her husband had granted her. It was the _only_ way for her to even the battlefield.

With a frustrated scream, she raised her left hand and curled all her fingers but the index and middle fingers and held it in front of her face. "_Avolo!_"

With a puff of smoke, she disappeared from Narcissa's view, causing the blonde to snarl in hateful, frustrated fury. "I WILL NOT BE DENIED BY REVENGE!" she screamed out. "GET BACK HERE SO I CAN KILL YOU, WHORE!"

"I'm right here, idiot," she heard her rival say from behind her. With a vengeful grin, Narcissa created ten more tentacles from her back and lashed out at where she presumed Ginny to be.

To the blonde's horror, however, the blades suddenly disappeared from her consciousness. It was as though someone had cut her link to them—which wasn't possible! Not unless they were actually _severed_ from her body.

Turning around quickly, half-curious, half-furious, she saw Ginny holding the severed tentacles in her hands, black ooze on the ground at the point of severance. The redhead's entire exposed body was covered in glowing blue lines that seemed almost mechanical in nature. Even her face was framed by them, all of them looking like vicious scars.

Her chocolate-brown eyes, like Susan's, were gone, replaced by the wispy, ethereal blue fire that reeked of magic itself.

Unceremoniously, she let go of the severed tentacles, dropping them on the ground as though they were trash. Then, after stretching her neck and cracking her knuckles, she slid into a ready stance before the stunned Narcissa and gave a confident glare.

"No more games," she stated with absolute severity. "One way or another, _this time_, only one of us is walking away alive."

* * *

_Skies Above Hogwarts…_

Charlie had never had such a bad day in his life as today.

Sure, his time at the concentration camp hadn't been a walk in the park, but by all possible estimations, today was _far_ worse.

First, everything had seemingly gone to plan as his Dragon Lancers helped the Imperial fighters in the air take down the enemy dragon contingents. Then, everything had gone to pot when the MS 5 hit. Being one of the older dragons among the Dragon Lancers, Zeke hadn't been affected by the shockwave, but Ruby—Foster's dragon—had become disoriented by it. Considering that some of his squad had their mounts outright die by way of brain aneurysms, it had been a godsend for the American woman.

Nevertheless, they now found themselves highly undermanned as their 100-strong airborne wing had now fallen to about 30. The MS 5 had been catastrophic to their numbers, to say the least.

Then, secondly, _four_ Imperial airships had been taken down, causing him and his men to have to dodge the falling behemoths as they continued their ferocious air battle with the few enemy dragons still in the air. The worst part of _that_ was that without their golem masters, the dragons were just running wild—which seemed to be infinitely more destructive than their previous state.

Thirdly, he had seen the portals open on the ground and the vast number of enemies streaming forward towards the Imperial lines. If he was honest with himself, he had always held a little bit of doubt towards Harry's story about the Venati. However, seeing them now on the field, he could no longer deny their existence, and was thus incredibly worried for the safety of his little sister, who he _knew_ would be on the field at some point.

The absolute worst part, however, came when, right after he saw some sort of black mass move around on the Astronomy Tower. From behind the castle rose several dark figures, all of whom seemed to be larger than the average dragon. To his relief, however, they were no numerous in number—merely forty of them in total.

That relief, however, was short lived as the enemy flyers came closer. With increasing horror, he realized that the flyers were not dragons, but rather some sort of sub-species of the Venati, adapted for flying. The two-story long airborne Venati had a dragon-esque appearance to them in that they held a reptilian head and four paws, but that was where the comparison ended. On their backs were _hundreds_ of chitinous spikes that he shortly discovered were capable of being fired.

Swearing as loudly as he could, he pulled Zeke's reins sideways and went into a barrel roll as twenty such spikes raced by him, taking down both an unsuspecting Lancer and one of the riderless dragons.

"_BOSS!_" he could hear Foster screaming through the comm.

"I'm fine!" he reassured his Lancers just as quickly. "All Lancers, spread out! Watch for those spikes!"

"_How the hell do we kill these things?!_" he heard one Lancer shout out as they watched a fellow dragonrider assault one of the Venati with no effect other than his own death.

Charlie did some quick thinking. One-on-one, it was clear that his Lancers would get butchered in a confrontation with the Venati. He would have to improvise, then.

"All Lancers, focus on a single Venati at a time!" he ordered, readying his lance. "Do not, I say again, do _not_ engage a Venati by yourself!"

Numerous sounds of confirmations flooded the comm. then, to Charlie's relief. He hoped that no one would act against the order, or else he would be losing many, _many_ more riders by the end of this fight.

"All Lancers, on me!" he then ordered as he prodded Zeke to dive and attack at one of the low-flying Venati. With an animalistic grunt, the Green Welsh obeyed its rider's order and plunged down towards the Venati in question, its wings tightly wrapped around its reptilian body to minimize wind resistance.

If it hadn't been for the magic that kept the wind from blowing Charlie away from his saddle, he had no doubts that he would have been falling to his death by now.

Regardless, Charlie kept his spear tightly tucked underneath his armpit as they raced down towards the unsuspecting Venati, his Lancers all behind him. Waiting patiently for the correct moment, Charlie suddenly gave out a yell and actually _jumped_ from his saddle towards the head of the creature, attempting to use gravity as a way of increasing the lethality of his lance's strike.

To his shock, however, the back of the Venati's head seemed to bubble, as though boiling. More horrifically, however, was the fact that _something _seemed to be rising from within it. As he felt his lance's blade connect with that something, he realized what it was.

A scythe.

_Rising out of the Venati was a scythe_.

Even just repeating it in his head, Charlie felt like this was the most ridiculous sentence he had ever heard, but there it was. Undeniably, a scythe was rising from the bubbling head of the Venati, and at its hilt seemed to be a human hand, which slowly rose out of the Venati's head until a fully matured human being was standing there, his scythe in hand as Charlie watched, standing on top of the Venati's neck, where he'd landed after the blow had failed to hit its mark.

Charlie was only dumbstruck for a moment, however, as he quickly realized that his new opponent was wasting no time in attacking him, scythe already in the air and swinging at his head. With a curse, he brought up his lance and blocked the strike with the metallic pole.

"What the hell are you?!" he demanded, still reeling from the fact that moments ago, he had seen an actual person materialized out of the back of another creature. Through the comm., he could hear Foster ordering the other Lancers to break off their attack, and was thankful for his second in command's quick thinking.

His opponent, however, was in no mood to chat, as he merely retracted his scythe back to his side and swung it around a few more times, showing off his dexterous ability in managing the usually unwieldy weapon. Then, with an incredible show of strength and deftness, he swung at him again, just as hard as last time.

This time, Charlie jumped back a little, mindful of the spikes behind him, and watched as the swing missed entirely. This seemed to give the stranger pause.

"That's two," he seemed to be muttering to himself.

Charlie immediately guessed that the man was talking about the number of misses, and wondered if that meant that the man had never before missed a strike.

"Interesting," noted the stranger as he pulled back the weapon and held it at his side. "You can actually avoid my strikes. I'm impressed."

Well, that answered _that_ question.

"You wanted my name?" recalled the stranger. He seemed to think about it for a minute before nodding and sliding into a ready stance, wielding his scythe with only one hand. "Very well. Manage to land a strike on me and I'll tell you."

A lesser man might have been taken in by the show of arrogance, but Charlie knew better than to let such emotions loose in the middle of battle. So instead, the redheaded Dragon Lancer also slid into a stance and held his lance in both hands, aimed straight at the stranger. Around them, the fight in the skies raged on as Foster tried to lead the Lancers to victory.

The stranger moved first. Without a sound, he dashed forward suddenly and swung his scythe up at Charlie, his free hand grasping the pole in mid-swing, thereby increasing the centripetal force of the strike. Charlie, for his part, spun in the opposite direction on his heel and brought his lance to bear as though it were a baseball bat and met the scythe's strike head on. The weapon managed to hold against the scythe, though it was becoming apparent to Charlie that it was taking a great deal of effort from both of them to keep the deadlock going.

Almost as though they had read each other's mind, the two suddenly spun backwards, releasing the deadlock and facing each other once again. With a cry, Charlie took the initiative this time, jumping forward and aiming to strike down at his enemy with his lance. It was a predictable move, but one that Charlie had purposefully done.

As he predicted, his opponent dodged the strike and grabbed at the pole, aiming to disarm Charlie. The redhead, however, wasn't done. Lashing out with his foot, he kicked the man in the face, sending him stumbling back while Charlie landed in a crouch, spear still well in hand.

The stranger seemed somewhat shaken by the hit. Obviously, he hadn't expected this to happen. "You _hit_ me…" he was saying shakily. "You actually _hit_ me!"

Charlie smirked. "Don't underestimate me, moron!" he taunted. "I didn't escape hell on earth just to die in this hellhole!"

The expression on the stranger unsettled him, however. The man had palmed his face softly and then retracted it, as though observing the blood that now coated his hand, following the man's rather brutal nose break. Obviously, he hadn't heard Charlie speak, or had ignore him in favour of this strange action.

Then, suddenly, a maniacal grin split the man's face. His eyes wide and deranged, he suddenly vanished from sight and reappeared over Charlie, apparently deliriously happy as he swung down his scythe at the redhead.

Charlie had to dive forward to avoid skewered, and tumbled into a roll during his escape. Agilely getting back on his feet, he saw the scythe's blade embedded in the Venati's neck. Yet, as far as Charlie could see, the creature didn't seem to be feeling any pain, which only served to worry him further. Just how strong _were_ these things?

Then he noticed that the stranger wasn't with his weapon, and the next thing he was aware of was a sharp pain in his stomach as the stranger rammed his fist into his midsection. Reflexively coughing out spit as he was launched backwards, he felt his breath catch as he tried to regulate his breathing once again. That punch had _hurt_, damnit!

When his vision came back under his control, Charlie saw the stranger standing above him, the same deranged smile from before still stuck on his face. Was the man _enjoying_ this? The very thought of it made Charlie feel a little sick. Not that he had any time to continue that train of thought, as the man descended onto him and began punching Charlie continuously, battering the redhead's body with his bare fists.

"What's the matter?!" demanded the stranger, still grinning like a madman as he continued his relentless beating. "Where's that bravado? That confidence? Aren't you going to stop me? You hit me after all!" That seemed to be the wrong thing to say, as his eyes seemed to widen even _more_ and his grin became all the more deranged, which Charlie hadn't thought was physically possible. "That's right! You hit me! You hit me, hit me, hit me, !"

Then, with the full force of his body, the stranger slammed a punch into Charlie's already battered stomach, and Charlie felt something inside him break and rupture, along with the protective armour. "YOU. HIT. ME!"

Charlie coughed out blood as he felt his oesophagus tear at some places from the viciousness of the blow. What the hell was _wrong_ with this freak?! Was he really going to die at the hands of this crazy person?!

It certainly seemed that way, considering that the man had suddenly stopped his barrage of attacks and had walked back to get his scythe. Charlie, for his part, could do nothing, as his battered body was screaming in agony at the vicious beating it had received. Even worse was the fact that his lance had been taken from him by the madman, who casually tossed it off the Venati's back, allowing it to plunge down to earth unhindered. He was defenceless now. Even his armour had been battered out of any usefulness.

"Damnit…" he gasped painfully as he lay there, waiting for the madman to come back. He was furious with himself. How could he die in such a miserable place? How could _this_ be the end of his life?

A shadow loomed over him. Glancing down, he saw the madman had returned, scythe in hand, the very picture of Death, were it not for the crazed grin and wide, deranged gaze. Charlie felt a mounting panic as he watched the man effortlessly raise his scythe with one hand at the bottom of its pole. This was it. The final blow.

Desperate to prolong his existence as much as possible, Charlie played for time. "Wait!" he cried out. "Your name! You promised!"

That actually seemed to stop the madman, who blinked at him in confusion before slowly nodding, scythe still in the air. "True," admitted the crazy person. He then shrugged. "Why would a dead man want to know, though?"

Charlie quickly thought up of an answer. "It's only proper!" he explained quickly. "Every warrior should know who their killer is!"

This seemed to amuse the man, judging by the arrogant smirk. "Fine. You want my name? You can have it. Curse it for all time as you spend the rest of your pathetic existence in hell!"

His crazed grin back in place, the man swung down his scythe. "I…am…BARTY CROUCH!"

Charlie closed his eyes as he saw the weapon swing down. This was it. He was going to die at the hands of one of Riddle's top lieutenants. When a second passed and nothing happened, however, Charlie was confused. Surely, it didn't take _that_ long for a scythe to swing down. Hesitantly opening one eye, he looked up and saw the _last_ person he wanted to see in this fight standing in front of him, facing Crouch.

"_Foster?!_" he shouted out.

The American woman was indeed holding back Crouch's scythe with her hands, her lance gone for some reason. Yet, despite having saved him, the scythe's blade had nonetheless managed to injure her, digging deep into her right shoulder. The brunette ignored Charlie's shout, focusing entirely on stopping Crouch from hurting her superior.

The brunette glared at Crouch for all she was worth as he stood there, amused by her interference. "Hands off the boss, you bastard!" she hissed, her slim frame shaking from the excruciating pain, but unyielding. Above them, Ruby and Zeke were both strafing the Venati they were on with breaths of fire, with little effect.

Crouch merely chuckled madly. "Stupid, stupid girl," he taunted, his hands on the pole twitching slightly, causing the blade to shift around in her wound and making her knees shake all the more from the pain. "Why don't you act like a good little whore and step aside while I kill that man?"

Showing extraordinary willpower, Foster managed a condescending grin. "Like hell, fuckface. Bring it!"

Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say, as the man's deranged grin widened a bit. Clearly, he had been _hoping _for some resistance. Roughly pulling on his scythe's pole, he lifted the weapon out of Foster's reach, compounding the damage already done to her body due to the rough movement. She let out a small cry as the blade finally slid out of her body and latched a hand on the bleeding wound. It was no longer deniable—her entire body was wracked with painful spasms. Not that Crouch cared, however.

Lashing out with a leg, he rammed it into her right side, making her give out another cry of pain as it served to aggravate the wound. Yet, even as she was hurt, she didn't budge an inch from her spot in front of Charlie's downed form.

"FOSTER!" she heard him yell at her. "Stop this, please! RUN!"

"Shut up, boss," she hissed through the pain, her eyes never leaving Crouch's figure. "You saved me back then, and I'm repaying the favour, so be a nice little boy and stay down while I kick this fucker's ass!"

She heard Crouch bark out a short laugh. The madman was getting quite amused by the injured woman's predilection for boasting. Even she had to admit that she was outclassed in this fight. That didn't mean she'd give up willy-nilly, though. Unlatching her uninjured hand from her bleeding shoulder wound, she pointed it straight at Crouch and waved it tauntingly towards her.

"Come on, asshole," she goaded him. "What'cha waiting for? Too scared to take me on?"

Crouch grinned madly. This woman was _very _amusing indeed. "Have you no fear, whore?" he asked.

Foster scoffed. "Whore, huh?" she said, ignoring his question. "I'll have you know, I've never let a single man touch me."

Crouch barked out another laugh. "_Right_, because all you humans are _so_ restrained!" he cackled. Charlie and Foster, however, noticed his word choice immediately. For all his appearance as a human being, it was clear that he didn't seem to believe himself to be one. "Why else would you jump in front of a blade if not to save your lover?"

Now it was Foster's turn to laugh, though Charlie gave a chuckle as well, both of them acting as though they were privy to some unspoken joke. For both of them, however, the act was incredibly painful as it aggravated their wounds.

Crouch frowned, angry at being left out of the loop. "What? What's so funny?! TELL ME!" he demanded, sounding—and acting—like a spoiled child.

Charlie's laugh had diminished into a constant snicker, but Foster had managed to regain enough control to explain. "Boss and I? _Together?_ That's real funny, freak," she complimented him mockingly. "I bat for the other side, don't you know?"

That was more than Charlie could handle, and he intermittently gasped in pain as his body was wracked with laughter. Tears of both pain and mirth mingled on his face as he let loose his amusement. Crouch, for his part, looked disgusted by the revelation.

"And you call _me_ a freak?" he snarled. He lifted his scythe for another strike. "You're nothing more than an abomination of nature! DIE!"

"Bigot," Foster muttered under her breath as she bent backwards and avoided getting decapitated. "What? Can't handle the thought of two women doing some sweet lovin' without the need of a man?" she taunted—which, in hindsight, seemed a bit unwise, considering how infuriated it seemed to make him.

However much she was taunting Crouch, however, Foster knew she couldn't beat him. She was weaponless, injured, and forced to defend the lying body of her superior, whom she was just downright unwilling to leave to die. He was her partner, and were she heterosexual, she might even have called him her soulmate. However, since she wasn't, she merely considered him her closest friend. Besides, she wasn't one to get tied down to anyone.

Regardless of her feelings, however, Crouch was going to kill them unless she somehow miraculously managed to pull a worthwhile plan out of her ass. However, that was a bit of a stretch, considering just how unbelievably _screwed_ she and Charlie were. As though to reinforce this, Crouch lifted his scythe yet again, and this time she knew it was the end. There was simply no way to dodge this oncoming blow, no matter how she tried.

As Crouch readied to end her life, however, she heard a dragon roar above them, and immediately thought of Ruby and Zeke. However, as she looked up, she saw neither, but rather a most surprising scene indeed.

Despite being smaller than the airships by a great deal, the airborne Venati were giving the Airfleet a damned time. She could see the creatures fly right through the defensive shields and rip into the armour, while the faster defence systems harmlessly pinged off the chitinous skin. She was sure not even these creatures could sustain a _Leviathan_ or _Basilisk_-class round, but they were moving too fast for that sort of target lock.

However, what was surprising her even more was the sight of a Norwegian Ridgeback, onyx in colour, diving straight at them, its jaws open as it readied to bit down on the wings of the Venati she, Charlie, and Crouch were standing on. Saddled at the base of its neck, however, was a man wearing a uniform neither of mages nor of the Empire, but rather the ocean blue of the American Resistance militia.

"YEE-HAHA!" she heard the rider cry out, a cross-spear glistening in his hand.

Crouch, stunned by the sheer randomness of this new combatant's entry into the fight, simply watched, frozen mid-strike, as the dragon came barrelling down towards them. With a simple movement of one hand, he then whispered something, and the Venati they were on launched out about fifty spikes at the newcomers, successfully skewering the dragon, although the rider was nowhere to be seen.

The reason for that, however, was because he was now crouching between Foster and Crouch, cross-spear in hand. Foster looked down at him as he raised his head and gave her a wink.

"Hey there, pretty lady. Charlie: you look like shit, man," greeted the newcomer as he stood up amidst the jingling sound of spurs moving, facing Crouch. "And you, don't y'all know it's damned rude to hurt a woman? Who the hell raised you?" he berated, much to the amusement of Charlie and Foster, but to the anger of Crouch.

"Who the hell are you?" spat Crouch, swinging his scythe at the newcomer.

The newcomer grinned as he easily blocked the strike between two of his spear's three blades. The smile became wider as he heard the sound of explosions overhead. With the exception of him, everyone looked up and saw an amazing sight.

Where the Imperial Airfleet had been having trouble with the airborne Venati—with one of the airships looking like it would be out of commission for some time, judging by the holes in its hull—someone was nonetheless managing to hurt the creatures. Looking behind them, towards the opposing end of the valley, they saw small spots in the sun that they suddenly realized were not spots at all, but rather the very best thing that could happen to them at this point.

_Reinforcements_.

The newcomer grinned before spinning on his heel and dislodging the scythe from his spear, and in the process managed to inflict a cut Crouch's chest. "You asked for my name?" he recalled, and Charlie was suddenly hit by a feeling of déjà vu.

Charlie watched in amazement as his friend's skin suddenly became alight with blue, mechanical-looking lines that raced over each inch of his bare skin. To Crouch, who could see the lines frame the man's face, the whole look was terrifying to behold, especially when the man's eyes were drowned out by ethereal, wispy blue fire that he could _feel_ the magic pouring out from.

"Colonel Nathaniel Pike of the Third Texan Dismounted Lancer Volunteers, American Resistance. At your service," he introduced himself, his youthful grin never faltering. "Pleased to meet'cha."

* * *

_Post-AN: Yep, them Americans are back. And ready to kick some ass, too._

_Now then, in an attempt to head off what I imagine will be a deluge of "WTF?!" reviews, I shall attempt to answer your questions as best as I can foresee them._

_1. **Nevile Dying**: Yes, he's dead. At least, I think so. I'm not quite sure myself. See, at first, I was just going to have both him and Susan kick some ass and take some names, including Dolohov's, but after much consideration, I realized that not only was that predictable and cliché, but it would be contrary to where I wanted to take Susan, character-wise. I mean, I figured I've been pretty much characterizing her as a hard-boiled soldier, but one with a seeming adversity towards magic--something more said in its absence than actual writing, and expanded upon here. That being said, what could possibly be reason enough for her to use this super-boost to her magic? Answer: Neville dying._

_2. **The OCs are Back**: With the return of Nathaniel Pike, I'm going to go ahead and take a wild guess that some people might not enjoy the return of these somewhat obscure OCs. After all, it kinda detracts from the asskicking main HP characters, doesn't it? Hell, I made Pike the one with the superpowers, not Charlie, which I'm guessing some of you might have been wanting. So why? One: because I'm mean like that and I like throwing curveballs; and two: because Pike's been in on the plan since Harrisburg. If you don't believe me, check the post-Harrisburg attack chapters again; specifically the one dealing with the final Death Eater assault._

_3. **Airfleet**: Another potential question: why no focus on the Venati/Airfleet combat? Simply put? I suck at aerial battles. The Battle of Salt Lake City was one instance where I pretty much **had** to write one, and even so, I'm so very not satisfied with it. That doesn't mean that there won't be scenes taking place in the Airships from here on, but rather that the tactical aspect of it will be, for the most part, glazed over. You'll still get to see Wolf direct the ships, and you'll get the feelings from the people within the Airships, but no blow-by-blow combat description. Sorry._

_Hope that covers the main points. If not, well then I'll see to answering your question as best I can via Review Reply. Cheers -- MB.  
_


	52. Chapter XLV: The End is Nigh

_A/N: Two things: 1) I don't like this chapter. I don't. It feels...almost forced to me, but I tried to make it as bearable as possible; 2) Maybe two-three chapters left. Three if the fight is two long (which would take two chapters--unlikely), two if it isn't. In either event, an epilogue should be expected._

* * *

Nature is a funny thing.

Completely chaotic, and at the same time the very pinnacle of order, it is an ongoing paradox that humanity seems incapable of either taming completely or understanding, no matter how much we try. Every single time we figure we have catalogued everything, something new always shows up to disprove these claims.

However, nature also self-regulates, by making sure that the evolutionary process is slow and gradual. It ensures that humanity will not, overnight, go into an overdrive of evolutionary mutation and eventually thus become an unstoppable force of rampant destruction.

Occasionally, however, there are people who are willing to go against nature. To defy the very forces that governs the Earth and _force_ humanity forward. These people are typically seen as either heroes, or villains.

And, as he took a break from operating on Albus Dumbledore, Bill wondered which one he was.

Since he could not smoke inside the operating room, he had excused himself, appointed another doctor to replace him, and had gone to the observation room, on the other side of the viewing window. To his relief, it was _almost_ empty, as most of the old man's colleagues did not wish to witness the procedure as it happened—disgusted as they already were with what Bill and his team were doing to him.

Ironic, really, considering that it was _Dumbledore_ who had asked for the procedure.

That wasn't to say that it was _completely_ devoid of occupants, one of which was glaring holes into him and the other was trying to assuage the first's temper.

Ah, the joys of hosting Mr. and Mrs. Ronald and Hermione Weasley.

Bill was a patient man, however. He had dealt with bureaucrats before, after all, and _those_ people had the whole "glare you into dust" look down to an art. If the _Civil Service_ couldn't make Bill sweat, he wasn't about to bend over his brother's comparatively mousy glare.

"You going to just stare all day, little brother, or are you going to say something?" he eventually asked, mildly curious as to what rant his brother would use. Would it be the "you've betrayed your family" speech? Or maybe the "how could you do this to us" speech? Ooooh, what if it was the "you've gone against the laws of nature" vitriol? Nah…maybe Hermione would give that one, but not Ron. Ron hadn't the foggiest clue about biology. For all he knew, Bill and his team were simply giving Dumbledore a haircut.

From the looks of it, Ron was about to take him up on that offer, but Hermione was quick to silence him with a stern glare, robbing Bill of the joy of tearing apart his youngest brother's arguments. Instead, he was met with the half-curious, half-worried expression of Hermione Weasley, née Granger.

"Yes?" he asked pleasantly, his smoking cigarette still stuck between his left middle and index fingers.

"If I asked you how the process works," she said, motioning towards the two-way observation glass, "will you give me an honest explanation, or just dodge it with excuses about secrecy?"

Bill raised an eyebrow. In all honesty, he hadn't considered that Hermione would tacitly approve of the process. Of course, she hadn't exactly _said_ so, but the fact that she wasn't openly railing against him for violating the laws of natural evolution said a lot about the girl. Most of which, in his opinion, was good.

"I might be convinced," he answered noncommittally. "Why?"

Hermione gave him a stern look. "Because whatever our differences have been, recently, he was nonetheless my mentor for over five years. He's a dear friend, and if he wants to go through something that _will_ kill him, I want to know how it works so that I can help him through it."

Bill's outward expression was one of casual disinterest, but internally, he was admiring the younger woman before him. Not even bothering to argue with the morality of his project, nor with the fact that he was sentencing a living icon to a premature death, she was instead asking for details of the operation merely for compassionate reasons. While he himself had distanced himself from such thinking long ago, he couldn't help but admire it in others.

With a slow nod, he gave his response. "Very well. What do you want to know?"

Hermione actually seemed surprised to hear a positive answer from him, but didn't let that ruin her momentum. "What is Project Valkyrie?" she asked.

Bill kept a blank look on his face and merely raised his left arm, his cigarette stuck between his lips as he used his other hand to pull back his coat's sleeve until his forearm was completely within view. With a small hand sign, he watched Hermione and Ron's stunned expressions as blue lines suddenly started glowing faintly all over his forearm, racing from the tips of his fingers all the way into his lab coat. "This is Project Valkyrie," he answered.

"How does it work?" Hermione pressed, recovering from her shock at the display.

Bill chuckled. "That's a bit like asking 'why are we here?'" he told her humorously. "But I gather you want to know what we're doing to him specifically, and how it's going to work."

She nodded.

Bill took a drag from his cigarette and nodded. "Very well," he stated, before diving into the fine details of Project Valkyrie. "As you know, Harry is currently the _only_ known Venati-Human hybrid in existence, if not the only hybrid of _any_ sort throughout the entire multiverse, from what we understand," he explained. "However, that didn't mean that we weren't curious as to whether the process could be repeated in the general population. After all, what better way to fight the Venati than with their own natural weapons? Unfortunately, however, that was not to be, as the entire first batch of volunteers died almost immediately in the process."

Ignoring the horrified looks on both Ron and Hermione's faces, he ploughed on. "So we immediately scrapped the plan to use the Venati DNA by itself," he went on. "Instead, we began to toy with the idea of implementing artificial constructs within the human body that would regulate the parasitic potential of the Venati DNA, without the detrimental effects that direct grafting would cause. By doing so, we hit a major breakthrough. We found that, with the use of specifically designed mechanical rods implanted into the epidermis to artificially regulate the spread and detrimental effects of the foreign DNA, we could use the Venati DNA's adaptive processes to give magic users a massive boost to their magical efficiency."

"Magical efficiency?" Hermione interrupted, curious. Bill nodded.

"You understand what a wand is for, right? Why mages need one?" He smiled as she nodded, though was less pleased when his brother seemed confused. "It's a tool for focus, Ron. The average human body is incapable of harnessing magical power into a viable spell on willpower alone simply due to a lack of focus. What we did essentially decreased the focus threshold for wandless spells exponentially."

"Which means…" began Hermione, awed as she realized the implications of Bill's explanation, "that where we might have needed an innate gift, or years of training to be able to make a wandless spark…"

Bill nodded. "You would now need to barely think about it in order to do it."

"That's…incredible!" she breathed, amazed by the discovery her brother-in-law had made. "Like lightning hitting a lightning rod!" Bill shrugged.

"That's just one facet of it," he told her. "The real shock came when we realized that when the same procedure was implemented into a regular human being, then the magical properties of the Venati DNA would cause a chain reaction within them."

"How so?" asked Ron, eyes narrowed as he started to follow the conversation.

Bill smiled. "The Venati DNA, as Harry and I have now both explained, is intrinsically parasitic, but it is also extremely aggressive," he explained. "To that end, when a magically-infused piece of such DNA is placed within a normal human being, the end result is that the magical genes within the Venati DNA is transmitted into the person," he looked over to Hermione, whose eyes had comically widened at where he was headed. "Can you guess where I'm getting at?"

"You…you _made_ mages?" she asked breathlessly. "That's…that's…"

Bill gave a smiling nod. "Indeed we did. With the help of the regulating microrods, which are designed to regulate the spread and aggressiveness of the foreign DNA, the average human being now has the potential to become a mage," he confirmed. "It was quite a shock, to be honest."

"That's incredible," Hermione seemed torn between awe and giddiness as she realized the wealth of knowledge that Bill and his team worked on. Not to mention the social implications for such a discovery.

Ron, however, was of a different mind, openly showing his disgust. "Incredible?!" he snapped. "It's a violation of the natural order, is what it is!"

Marching right up to his brother, he looked at Bill straight in the eye and roughly poked a finger into his brother's chest for emphasis. "Wizards are born, Bill! _Witches_ are born! We are not some toy you can just _build_!"

Bill, however, would not be lectured on the morality of his project; not when the future stability of the Empire was at stake. "Magic is the reason this war happened, _brother_," he spat back, his cigarette now on the floor and squished. "Do you even understand what this project will do? There will be no more separation of the human race into two groups—no more racism on the basis of magical ability, because _everyone_ will have it! We won't have to hide away in our little hidey-holes as though we should be ashamed of our gifts!"

Bill took a step forward, making his brother retreat just as much. "I've had it with the superiority complex of our people, brother," he continued, angrily jabbing his finger into Ron's chest. "I've had it with the complacency! We strut around, as though every other creature should bow to us for our ability to use magic, but conversely, we allow _everything _to pass us by! I'm sick of using candles when we could use lightbulbs; quills, when pens exist! Why on earth do we even use parchment, when lined, mass produced paper exists!?"

Ron was not cowed into silence, however. "Tradition, Bill!" he countered. "It's all about tradition! We've always been this way, always used these tools you demean so loudly! You would sacrifice a thousand years of tradition for the sake of blind progress?!"

"Yes!" Bill snapped back immediately and without second thought. "Tradition is good and all _when it doesn't hold us back_! When it does, however, it should be done away with or altered to suit the new times!" he lectured. "Tradition is _not_ natural, little brother—it is merely a human social construct. And if this human creation is holding us back, then it is only logical for us to shed ourselves of it or make suitable alterations."

"Does the Duke agree with that?" Hermione asked softly, interrupting their argument.

Bill gave a single shake of his head. "Of course not," he answered irritably. "Harry is much more traditional than I am. Of course, that's tempered with a healthy respect for technological innovation, so I can't really complain. After all, he _is_ the one who spearheaded the Archangel Project and Project Valkyrie."

Whatever his brother and sister-in-law wanted to say in response was quickly cut short as the door to the decontamination room opened up and Fleur poked her head. "Bill, we need you in here. We're about to graft the final pieces of the Venati DNA," she informed him.

Bill sighed and quickly stashed his cigarette box into his coat pocket before going into the room Fleur was waiting in. There, he got suitably scrubbed-up and then proceeded to the operation room, leaving behind the two newest Weasley couple.

Hermione left her husband's side and went up to the two-way observation mirror, softly placing a hand on the glass as she watched Bill and Fleur, along with a substantial medic team, operate away on the man she'd at one point considered her greatest mentor. Successful or not, she knew Dumbledore would die—that was the point. Obviously, Dumbledore had finally understood the breadth of his actions' consequences and wanted to atone for it—just not on some gallows. This way, he could potentially redeem himself before the world _and_ pay for his crimes with his life. Everyone won…somewhat.

"It's not right," she heard Ron protest to no one in particular. "It's just not right."

"What isn't?" she asked softly, eyes still fixed on the gory, medical spectacle before her.

"Everything," he answered, his fists clenching at his sides in impotent rage. "Our home taken, our culture dismissed…Dumbledore dying like this!" he motioned towards the mirror, though his wife could not see it. "What did we do to deserve this?"

"We threw the first blow," she reminded him softly; torn between supporting the sentiment and disagreeing with it entirely.

Ron snorted. "So they should punch us back, I get that—I do," he replied honestly. "But total annihilation? Total eradication of our way of life, just because it doesn't meet their standards? Whatever happened to tolerating different cultures? I thought you said that was one of the pillars of Muggle society."

"A lot has changed," she stated simply. "We never noticed—_I_ never noticed, because we didn't want to notice," she elaborated. "It's a bit like Bill says. We were so stuck in tradition that we didn't notice the world around us advance centuries beyond us. When they wanted us to deal with our problems, we dismissed them because we thought ourselves superior…and I guess, at some point, they decided they would tolerate no further."

"So if _they_ think it's broke, they have a right to fix it by taking everything away from us?" he asked bitterly, arms crossed as he moved to his wife's side.

Hermione shrugged. "Who are we to say no? They won, Ron—whether we like it or not," she reminded him. Their eyes had still not met. "They have the weapons, the power, and the popular backing they need to vaporize every last trace of our magical society, and it's probably because of your sister that we're even alive."

"Don't remind me," he grumbled, his pride still stinging from the idea that his baby sister was probably the only thing between him and a firing squad.

Hermione turned to face him, a stern expression on her face. "No, Ron, I _will_ remind you," she said sternly. "Enough is enough. Your sister has done practically the impossible and kept an insane tide of popular support for our execution at bay. She's risked her neck when she didn't have to, and this feud you, Molly, and Percy have with her is frankly now getting ridiculous, considering all she's done for us."

"She helped the Empire take our homes!" he defended himself. "How could I possibly feel indebted to her?!"

Hermione glared at her stubborn husband. "And yet we somehow managed to own property in Harrisburg. _Harrisburg_, Ron. We were on a _blacklist_ when the Royal government was restored, and we _somehow_ managed to get in, regardless. And, if Minerva is right, it's entirely thanks of your sister. She had to intervene with local authorities _just_ to let us buy a house. She probably had to convince Potter that we were harmless to even get us in the country, Ron! Hell, haven't you figured out how much of a miracle it is that our home hasn't even been broken into or vandalized, even _once_? Who we are is no secret, and I've had my fair share of glares thrown my way while walking down the street, so I'm guessing your sister had the police presence there increased substantially."

"And I should forgive her for everything else she's done, just because of that?" he demanded, slightly surprised when Hermione firmly nodded.

"Yes, Ron! I mean, what else could you _possibly_ want from her?" she demanded right back. "She could have her reputation ruined on the basis of favouritism or nepotism, and yet she still went out of her way to make sure we would be safe and with a roof over our heads!" she reminded him. "Isn't that enough?"

"Not until we get an apology for what she did," he growled, unwilling to let go all that easily. "She ruined everything back home. She practically helped the Death Eaters undermine the Order by taking away so many wizards and witches!"

This time, Hermione did react physically. Drawing her left hand back, she immediately delivered a resounding slap to Ron's face, stunning her husband by the act of physical violence—which Hermione _never_ did. She could use her magic to retaliate, or attempt humiliation via verbal attacks, but she _never_ used physical violence before.

"How dare you!" she hissed at him, for once well and truly furious towards her husband. "We set ourselves up for that fall, Ron, and you better man up and admit it!"

"What?! How?!" he demanded, flinching slightly as his reddened cheek stung from the movement of his jaw. His wife could _really_ pack a slap!

"We never once did anything to make things better, Ron," she reminded him. "How many years had gone by between Voldemort's defeat and the coup? How many times in those years did Dumbledore do something that was in the public interest? How many hurtful and discriminatory laws did he veto during that time?"

"He's _one man_, Hermione! You can't expect him to—"

"_Yes_, I _can_," she cut him off determinedly. "He was _Supreme Mugwump_, Ron. _Supreme Mugwump_. He could have stopped any number of proposals going through the Wizengamot, but he _didn't_. Instead, he chose to play headmaster, when Minerva was around as a suitable replacement option! If he didn't have the will to be the supreme legislative actor in the Wizengamot, then he should have stepped aside and let someone reformist have the job, but he didn't!"

"But the Empire did?" he asked bitterly.

Hermione gave him a firm nod. "Yes, they _did_. The worst part is, Ron, that they didn't have to pass a great deal of laws to make themselves appealing to the people who left—most had been in place for _years_. _We _are the ones who fell behind. _We_ promoted intolerance while they didn't. _We_ were falling behind _most_ of the world, Ron! Not just the Empire!"

Ron wanted to argue, he really did. The problem was, everything that he had on the tip of his tongue sounded hollow even to him. He hadn't been one of the main operational minds of the Order for nothing—and even his brief stint in the Imperial military had opened his eyes to quite a lot of the positives of the Empire. The problem was, he had never truly been forced to come face to face with his beliefs. Perhaps if he'd had in the past, he would have been less reticent about their situation. As a result, his epiphany was a little late in coming, and as he watched his respected leader figure get operated on, he realized that it was probably time to admit defeat.

Needless to say, he _hated_ the feeling.

But if it came down to either feeling defeated or losing his wife—who even _he_ had to admit was possibly too good for him—then he chose defeat, hands down.

"I…suppose," was all he said, and Hermione's face lit up with a bright, proud smile as she immediately understood that he had finally come around. With a feminine squeal, she launched herself at him and hugged him tightly, happy to have finally convinced him.

* * *

_Hogwarts Castle Astronomy Tower…_

As a rule of thumb, dodging is perhaps the most vital skill that any melee fighter should _ever_ learn. After all, in close-quarters combat, opponents were far more liable to twist and bend in ways to quickly adapt to a changing situation. At a distance, all of this was negated by the amount of firepower per second that could be discharged from a safe distance.

However, that being said, dodging _fifteen_ _tentacles_ was quite possibly just an exercise in ridiculousness.

Ginny had _never_ had such a workout imposed on her _in her life_, and considering her status as one of the best assassins in the world, that was saying something. Yet, despite this glaring hole in her education as a skilled life-taker, she was nonetheless faced with such a predicament as Narcissa finally seemed to completely let loose on her hated rival.

The problem was, as she'd found out, that the tentacles were not as rigid as their chitinous composition should have made them. They were twisting and turning at every feasible angle, always forcing Ginny to jump around like a rabbit on speed if she was to avoid getting skewered by the absurd number of sharp appendages.

Even worse was the fact that she couldn't hurt Narcissa via said appendages. She'd tried—Lord knows she tried—but she never seemed to get even a wince out of the blonde whenever she successfully managed to tear off one of them with her upgraded power. That led the redhead to believe that the damn things were cut off from the blonde's nervous system, meaning that she was pretty much guiding them around on instinct _alone_.

Needless to say, Ginny was suitably impressed. Hard-pressed in surviving the assault, yes, but impressed nonetheless.

The fact that she was down to using her melee sabre also hindered Ginny's arsenal of attacks. With her retractable blades, she would have been able to deliver blows with less risk to herself, but using the sabre meant getting up and close with the damn things in a way that put her in immense risk. Even worse was the fact that she hadn't yet found a way to get to the blonde.

It didn't do much good being an assassin if the target was unreachable, after all.

Of course, her upgraded strength also gave her an advantage. She now knew with certainty that she _could_ take on the tentacles and win—the only problem was that Narcissa was regenerating them with amazing speed. Every time Ginny ripped one off, it seemed to her that Narcissa had two more ready to replace it.

Hell, there was a rather impressive puddle of black ooze forming on the ground from all the tentacles she had ripped cleanly off Narcissa.

Grimacing at how hard it was to get to the blonde, Ginny quickly sheathed her sabre and brought up her left hand in a familiar sign. "_Avolo!_" she cried, shortly before disappearing in a puff of smoke, just as Narcissa's tentacles speared right through where she'd been.

The blonde was quick on the uptake, however, and sure enough, Ginny was beset by the sharpened appendages almost immediately on reappearance. With a frustrated grunt, she spun and flipped in an impressive array of acrobatics, taking down another tentacle in the process.

Quickly processing the situation, she rationalized her current choices with as clear a mind as she could possibly have in her current predicament. Physical attacks, while the most devastating to the tentacles, would not get her anywhere near Narcissa, unfortunately. That left magic.

Crossing her arms in front of her, she gave Narcissa a vicious glare as she pooled her magic all over her forearms. "_DIFFINDO!_" she cried out, swinging down her arms as she released the spell from both her forearms. The result was two impressive arcs of magic racing towards Narcissa as she herself moved out of the way of a dozen attempts to spear her.

The spell was more effective than Ginny had hoped. Cutting through the tentacles effortlessly, it managed to make its way all the way over to Narcissa before it dispelled against Narcissa's point-blank defence. Emboldened by this new information, Ginny grinned and really let loose on the blonde, flinging _Diffindo_ curses one after another at Narcissa, who was having a hard time replacing the slashed appendages at the rate that Ginny was eliminating them.

Nonetheless, actually _hitting_ Narcissa seemed to be a problem in and of itself. Ginny had yet to land a single blow against her, after all, and while she could keep cutting the tentacles until the cows came home, she _did_ have her magical limits, while it didn't seem like creating the tentacles was much of a stamina-drainer for her blonde rival.

Frustrated, she watched as another _Diffindo_ curse get blocked by the seemingly instinctual shield that protected Narcissa from any sort of direct physical attack. Well, at the very least, Ginny didn't have to worry about getting stabbed to death, seeing as how she could just slice off any new tentacles with her magic. The problem was, as stated previously, that she _did_ have her limits.

"Time to get creative, I suppose," she muttered to herself. Glancing around as she continually harassed Narcissa, such that the blonde would be unable to send out more tentacles to worsen Ginny's day, she quickly locked her gaze on to a broken piece of rock that had once graced the tower as a parapet stone.

Narrowing her eyes at Narcissa's entombed form, she sent two more _Diffindo_ spells at her defensive cocoon and then made a dash for the rock. Sliding into a halt next to it, she looked up momentarily to see Narcissa's cocoon slowly dissolve as her attacks had waned, and quickly got to work, placing her two hands on the detached stone.

"Here goes nothing," she muttered as she channelled her magic into her hands and from there, into the stone. She grinned as she watched the stone glow, then slowly change shape as it lengthened and thinned out into a stone staff. It would be heavy as hell, but with her increased strength, Ginny had no doubts she could wield it as though made of foam.

Grabbing the newly Transfigured staff, she leapt out of the way of two more tentacles, and quickly dispatched them with well-placed _Diffindo_ curses. Expertly, she quickly channelled her magic into the staff and focused it on the top end, having failed to complete the Transfiguration before. Slowly, she watched it shift into a spear-like design, and grinned in satisfaction. Then, with a twirl, she pointed it in a ready stance towards the ground.

"Preparations…complete!" she said in satisfaction as she fed the staff with very specific magic. The effects were instantaneous. All along the spearhead, blue swirls were beginning to form around it, moving upward in a spiral shape. It was time to see if she was as good a mage as she was an assassin.

With a heave, she readied the stone spear for a throw, taking her time in lining up the perfect shot, even as Narcissa's cocoon once again dissolved, and the tell-tale pools of dark energy on the blonde's body marked the beginning of more tentacles. Narrowing her eyes, she locked in on the blonde's chest, figuring it would be harder to avoid that than a spear to the head or to the gut.

"Enough games!" she heard Narcissa screech as she formed over twenty tentacles. "Time to die, you worthless bint!"

Ginny could not help the amused smirk on her face as she readied the throw. "Could _not_ agree more…" she muttered, just before taking in a deep breath, pulling back the spear, and then throwing it forward with all her magically-empowered strength. She had to mentally restrain herself from shouting, "Eat this!" at this point, as she figured that would just be tacky as _hell_.

Regardless, she watched with a grin as the spear flew through the air and slashed its way through the tentacles swarming to smash it away, the spiralling tip of the spear magically drilling its way through the air. With the satisfying sound of flesh getting ripped apart, she watched as the spear did its job and literally drilled through the dark cocoon's protective chitin flesh, finishing up in a surprised Narcissa's chest. The blonde slumped to the ground on her side.

Ginny couldn't help the victorious arm-pump she did then. The whole thing had been a _long_ shot, but seeing the effects that her magic was having on the tentacles, she figured she could apply that to break the cocoon, if she managed to find a way of delivering a ton of magic to a centralized point.

Her elation didn't last long, however, as she watched the slump Narcissa slowly get back to her feet, the stone spearhead still very much protruding from her back. Ginny audibly groaned at the sight.

"Oh, _come on!_"

"Ne…ver…" Narcissa was saying through her pained gasps of breath. Honestly, it surprised Ginny that she could even speak, considering the pain she must have been in. "…Ne…ver…give…up…you!"

Ginny didn't have to be a rocket scientist to understand that Narcissa was refusing to surrender. Then, to her surprise, Narcissa grabbed the spear pole and, excruciatingly slowly, pulled the weapon out of her body, pained moans treacherously leaving her mouth as she did.

When the spear was out, however, Ginny wanted to stomp her foot in frustration as she watched the wound _slowly_ close up. Was there no way to beat Venati hybrids?

Any thoughts along that line were quickly pushed aside as she watched the blonde slam down her hands, side by side, on the stone floor, and easily fifty linear shadows spread out from that location, racing every which way.

"T…" Narcissa tried to vocalize, wincing as she spoke. Clearly, even if her regenerative powers had closed the gaping hole in her chest, it had not yet repaired all of the internal damage. "_Torment of the Underworld!_"

Immediately, Ginny had a _really_ bad feeling about the situation, and instinctually pushed all her magic to her feet and jumped straight up, leaving behind two feet-shaped indentations in the stonework as a result of the massive amount of strength she had put into it.

It was lucky she _did_, too, because almost immediately thereafter, easily seventy onyx-coloured, chitin spikes shot up from the shadows that Narcissa had spread all over the top of the tower.

Up in the air, Ginny goggled at the sight of the entire top of the Astronomy Tower turning into a miniature replica of hell. Had she been a second late in jumping, the spikes would have speared her.

"Damn…" she muttered to herself, astonished by this new show of power from her rival. From what she could determine, there were very few spots lefts for her to land, and even less room for mobility. Narcissa had used that move well. _Too_ well, in fact.

Even worse was the fact that Ginny _knew_ she had to go back down there in the immediate future, as gravity was a harsh mistress. The landing wasn't a problem, given her control over her body mass, but fighting amidst the needle-like spikes would be. Even worse would be if Narcissa ever decided to use that technique again, just to fill in the gaps.

With a sigh, she quickly homed in on a suitable landing spot and gently set herself on the ground, one tentative foot at a time. All the while, her mind would not stop thinking up plans for dealing with the persistent blonde. Strategies, anatomical analyses, tactics—they buzzed in her mind rapidly as she realized just how amazingly _screwed_ she was. The amount of space she had calculated from above was in fact much smaller than anticipated. Furthermore, there was no direct line of vision towards Narcissa, which meant she couldn't track the blonde, while her opponent didn't seem to have that problem in regards to guiding the tentacle blades.

"Like I have the time to play hide-and-seek," she grumbled, drawing her sabre in the process. Absently, she cast a _Diffindo_ curse at one of the spikes, and sighed as she watched it barely nick it. On a whim, she then cast a Killing Curse at it, and while the dent was a little deeper, it was also quite useless against the spike.

"Damnit all…" she muttered again. Looking around, she scanned the area for both threats and movement space, and found none of the latter, but some of the former. Quickly, she jumped aside as three tentacles slammed into the ground where she'd been standing moments ago. Almost immediately, a cackle resonated in the air.

"FOUND YOU!"

Twenty tentacles seemed to appear at this point, jutting into the small clearing from every possible angle, making life _very hard_ for Ginny as she ducked, rolled, and jumped out of their way. The tentacles weren't about to let up, however, and quickly twisted and turned to chase after the petite woman, forcing Ginny to dance around the small clearing with skill she had never known herself to possess if she wanted to survive.

Well, that wasn't going to last, no matter _what_ she did. Eventually, the tentacles, sightlessly guided by Narcissa, managed to corner her as she was pressed against one of the many spikes that surrounded the clearing. This time, it was over. There was no place she could jump to or run to that would keep her from becoming a personified representation of Swiss cheese. So instead, she charged her hands with magical power and got ready to slam her hands into the ground to form a barrier, hoping against all odds that she would pull it off before Narcissa was able to kill her.

"_Kage Shibari_"

To her surprise, as Ginny had been certain her life was about to be ended, the tentacles froze in mid-thrust, stopping barely more than a few inches away from her crouching body, her hands on the floor, but her spell not yet activated.

"_Oodama no Kaze_," she heard next, and she was suddenly glad that she was crouching, as she saw some unseen force suddenly mow down the spikes around her. She squinted as sunlight suddenly flooded the clearing, having been significantly reduced by the onyx-coloured spikes previously.

"You seem to be in some distress, Potter-san," she heard the same voice talk to her. She looked up and saw a shadowed figure standing atop the spike she had been forced against, looking down at her. "May I be of assistance?"

Suddenly, it clicked in Ginny's head where she'd heard that voice before, and her eyes widened as a result. There was no _way_ that Harry had managed to involve them in this as well. She knew about the American Resistance's debt to him, of course, but to involve the _neutral_ Japanese?! What the hell did he have on _them_?!

"Y-Your Imperial Majesty…" she stuttered out in shock as the shadows seemed to recede from the man's appearance, revealing the regal features of the Japanese Emperor as she stood in a doctrinal _kenjutsu_ stance, even though his katana and wazikashi were still sheathed.

If the man had heard her, he didn't show it, as he kept his gaze focused towards some place she couldn't see due to the spike stumps blocking her field of vision.

"I see…" she heard him say then, his drawing hand on his katana hilt. "That woman reeks of darkness. No wonder your husband asked me to help you," he concluded as he slowly drew his sword. "A wise choice."

Almost immediately, _thirty_ tentacles shot up from somewhere on the tower, she saw, and raced to skewer the new arrival. Even as Ginny shouted out a warning, she watched as the much older man deftly countered and parried every last one of the tentacles with an ease even _she_ hadn't been capable of, and she was both magically enhanced _and_ trained as an assassin!

"Pathetic form," the Japanese man chided Narcissa as he deflected and then surprisingly _severed_ the tentacles. "I've sparred with _children_ who could deliver a more effective blow, _girl_."

Maybe it was the fact that the Emperor had lived for a longer time than she, or just the way he was, but Ginny couldn't help but note that he had a way of making even the simplest admonishments sound like a resounding notice of utter failure. From the twitch in the tentacles, she knew it even got to Narcissa, whom she could hear screech in fury as she launched attack after attack, which the Emperor deflected with embarrassing ease.

"Do not presume me to be some grunt, _girl_," he admonished. "One does _not_ become Emperor of the Japanese merely due to inheritance."

As if to articulate this point, he slashed through two more tentacles as though they were butter, his form immaculate. Ginny could only stay still and watch as the older man completely outclassed her in skill and form, not even sweating as he deflected, parried, and destroyed Narcissa's attack outright.

Suddenly, however, his gaze was on her crouching form, judgmental and stern. "How long will you keep hiding away like that, Potter-san?" he demanded in a stern, accented voice. "Do not tell me that the infamous _Shishiko_ is nothing more than a scared little kitten!"

That did it. Ginny was many things—most of them good—but lacking in pride was not one of them. Rising to her feet, she gave the Emperor a reproachful glare—which, in any other occasion, would have been reason enough for her to beat herself up for, given his elevated status—and then jumped up to where he was calmly standing, awaiting Narcissa's next attack. She landed in a crouch at his side, her hands still magically charged.

The Emperor gave her a satisfied nod and returned his gaze to their enemy, whom Ginny could not see once again. Narcissa was apparently getting winded, she noted, judging from her slightly hunched stance and the limp way her arms were hanging. She guessed that between her lance attack and the spike-forming spell, Narcissa had taken a severe blow to her stamina.

"Do not presume that what it seen on the outside reflects the inside," the Emperor warned her, apparently having guessed her train of thought. "She may look tired, but how much more will she have to go through before she is exhausted?"

Ginny nodded, accepting his words of caution without question. He had satisfied her suspicions when he had called her _Shishiko_, or Lioness. It was a nickname she had heard of from Harry, and since it wasn't widely publicized, she imagined that it was more of an in-house name for her since her little jaunt in Japan during her Confederacy days.

"She has a point defence mechanism," she warned the Emperor. "Anything gets too close, and she'll instinctively cocoon herself in the same material as those tentacles, only denser."

The man nodded. "Is there any way to defeat this absolute defence?" he asked calmly, like a seasoned warrior on a battlefield—which, incidentally, he currently was.

Ginny nodded. "Concentrating magical energy within a small area seems to be enough to tear through the protection. Wide-area attacks simply dissipate against the shell," she reported.

The Emperor nodded again. "Good. Leave her to me, then," he told her, surprising Ginny. "I am not so new to war as to believe that the Duke would send his top assassin and spy into enemy headquarters to defeat someone who _should_ be dead."

Ginny didn't bother denying it. "Correct," she admitted. "There is a ritual happening beneath us. I need to destroy the ritual circle and all traces of the process."

The Emperor nodded. "Very well. Go, then," he said, still the epitome of calm, as though Narcissa couldn't do a thing to faze him.

Ginny hesitated. "I…are you sure, Imperial Majesty?" she asked, motioning towards Narcissa. "She's strong…like you said. And my mission can wait, unless they start the ritual up again," she argued.

Normally, the Emperor would have simply dismissed Ginny the way he did with unruly subordinates, but as Ginny was neither under his command, nor exactly an inferior, he restrained himself from doing so, admitting that she may have some grounds for her hesitation. So instead, he compromised and, with a one-handed hand sign, caused a jet of black light to shoot up into the sky, exploding into a Japanese character.

"A call for reinforcements," he simply stated when he saw her curious look. "It would not do to have your mission so postponed, so I will have my men carry it out while we deal with this unruly woman."

Ginny grinned and nodded once. "As you say," she agreed, getting into a ready position to lunge forward in attack.

Narcissa made the first move, however, launching all her tentacles at the duo, who either leapt out of the way, or countered it with their sword. Deflecting the last one—and unable to manage a severing cut—the Emperor rose his non-grip hand up and made a one-handed sign again, this one different from the one he'd used to send up the jet of light.

"You seek us out without sight; you have my admiration for your skill," he told Narcissa in his perpetually calm tone. "But let us see how you fare in _true_ darkness. _Kokuangyo no Mahou!_" he incanted, and Narcissa's relentless attacks suddenly stopped, with the tentacles flapping about uncontrollably.

"I-I can't see!" the blonde wailed. "My senses! _WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?_"

The Emperor wasn't about to explain his magicks to the enemy, however, and merely turned his attention to Ginny, who had understood that the Emperor had seemingly crippled Narcissa's senses. "_Shishiko_! Now!"

"Got it!" she shouted back, racing towards the mortified blonde at the centre of the tower roof. She immediately charged her fists with magical energy and landed right in front of her archenemy, both hands visibly glowing with magical power. "Here goes nothing! _Diffindo!_"

Normally a curve-like attack, Ginny had purposely kept all the _Diffindo_ magic in her hands, specifically swirling around them as she flattened her hands and jabbed them into the quickly-forming chitin cocoon. As she had previously observed, the concentrated onslaught of magical energy drilled away at the cocoon, until she finally felt her hands break through on the other side and go through something both soft and moist, followed by a pained scream.

Judging by her angle of attack, Ginny had just managed to inflict massive, lethal wounds on Narcissa, having aimed for both lungs.

What she didn't expect, then, is to have the cocoon explode on her at point-blank range, threatening to end her life with shrapnel fire. To her great surprise, however, she suddenly reappeared back at her initial spot, cradled in the arms of the Emperor, who was carrying her bridal style and at the same time looking at the remains of the chitin cocoon.

Looking as well, she saw Narcissa on the floor, a rather large pool of blood forming underneath her. While not outright dead, it was pretty clear that the blonde would not be able to continue fighting in her present condition, nor would she be among the living for much longer.

Regardless, Ginny could not help but feel a small sense of respect for her nemesis, who was still clinging on to life, even in her death throes. The tight cloth over the blonde's eyes had loosened over the whole fight, to the point that it had now slid down to her neck and hung there, giving both the Emperor and Ginny a good look at the blonde's face in its entirety for the first time.

Narcissa's eyes were sewn shut. Hell, they could even see the stitching that had done the work. Which, in hindsight, made complete sense, since Ginny _had_ put two blades through her eyes.

The two warriors watched their defeated foe as she clawed and grasped at the stone beneath her, desperately trying to keep herself alive, as improbable as that was.

And then, the firestorm on the grounds ended.

Ginny and the Emperor both turned their heads to look, curious to see the result, and almost immediately they felt Narcissa's presence dash past them, headed straight towards the grounds—despite being at the top of the tallest tower in the castle complex—a rather large trail of blood painting the stonework beneath their feet and leading off the tower and towards the grounds.

Ginny reacted instantly, as did the Emperor. "Shit!" she shouted, using her magically enhanced limbs to race after Narcissa, jumping off the tower in the process, the Emperor right on her tail.

The two landed roughly on the ground, deep impressions forming as their mass was magically altered to avoid death-by-gravity. And yet, they could already see their prey making her way towards the ground far ahead, the trail of blood increasing in width as her wounds worsened. Frankly, it was nothing short of a miracle that the woman was still alive.

As they passed the complex, they looked down again as they reached the edge of the plateau on which the school was mounted, and looking down, saw a small figure—Narcissa—rushing towards what seemed to be a magical dome, making Ginny glower.

"Oh, he _didn't_!" she hissed, correctly guessing the location of her husband. "That _stupid git_!"

Without giving the Emperor a chance to ask for an explanation, she quickly followed Narcissa's example and jumped off the edge, her magic once again at work in reallocating her mass to avoid getting splattered at the bottom. As she did, she heard a large explosion coming somewhere from the vicinity of the Second Gate, but paid it no heed. Her husband's health came first.

* * *

_Hogwarts Grounds, Airfleet Bombardment Ground Zero…_

Harry gave a contented sigh as he saw the bombardment finally let up, his personal squad of ADST bodyguards still in their circular formation around him, rifles aimed at the ground while they waited out the catastrophic firestorm. Noticing, like their chief, that the bombing was coming to an end, however, they were quickly raising their rifles once more, ready to fight the inevitable onslaught of Venati that would rush to meet them once the portals were no longer in the middle of a raging storm of fire and death.

Harry, however, had different targets in mind, having sensed them the moment they seemed to lock onto him. To his surprise, two of the people he'd expected to have gotten themselves killed hadn't, and this brought on some irritation towards his subordinates. Clearly, his improvements hadn't been enough, or something had gone wrong. He would have to speak to his men later on.

Regardless, he _knew_ he had Riddle's attention now. There was no way that between everything that had just happened, that he _wouldn't_ come out and end him once and for all. All he needed to do to ensure that this would be the inevitable and logical next step, then, was to finish what his subordinates could not—and in such a way to firmly establish that he wasn't someone to underestimate.

"Men, part formation," he ordered the group. "Form up at my rear. One line, facing the portals."

"Yes, sir!" replied the detachment sergeant, before repeating the orders to the group. As ordered, the remaining ADST bodyguards marched in step to their new position behind their charge, despite their own reservations about leaving him wide open to attack.

Little did they understand, that this _was_ what he wanted.

Indeed, he could sense the two enemy presences coming closer by the second, although they were considerably weakened. Even then, however, he accurately judged them to be multiple times stronger than any one of his ADST bodyguards, and being a man who didn't enjoy pointless sacrifices, he was not about to waste his men on targets he knew they couldn't beat.

The first of the two enemies came from above, which immediately told him that he needed to have a word with Pike over his lack of success, as he knew the Texan soldier would have bolted to help his former comrade, Charlie. Curious as he was about the enemy lieutenant's identity, however, Harry maintained his disinterested expression as he felt the person near him. What surprised him, however, was that the figure rammed into the ground in front of him, kicking up dirt and dust as he slid into a shallow trench caused by his landing.

Harry couldn't help the smirk on his face.

"Well, well," he said tauntingly as he recognized the battered figure in the trench. "Not looking so well, are you Barty?"

A testament to Pike's skill, Barty looked like he was about to keel over any moment now. Gashes decorated his ragged body, and his dark robes had been torn apart, leaving only his lower body covered in any way. Above the waist, however, he looked like he'd been flogged alive to the point of skinning, judging from the amount of blood coating his chest. Even his face looked like an angry mountain lion had taken its claws to it, and he was breathing deeply and painfully, judging from the constant flinching.

"You know, I _was_ going to reprimand Pike for not killing you," he observed, as Barty struggled to his feet, his equally battered scythe barely held by his trembling hands. "But this is _so_ much more gratifying, I think."

"P-Potter!" he heard Crouch barely stammer out coherently. Harry raised an impressed eyebrow—the man must be hurting a whole damn lot more than he'd been thinking. "D-Die in the n-name of our Lord!"

Well, Harry had to give the man props for tenacity, though a zero for common sense. Refusing to move an inch from his position, he looked on as Crouch slashed at him with his scythe in an agonizingly slow move. Raising his left hand, he was easily able to grasp the chipped blade of the scythe between his index finger and thumb, completely stopping the momentum of the attack.

"Is that it?" he asked disappointedly. Crouch glared up at him and was about to say something when a massive jolt of pain wracked his body and killed whatever insult he had on the tip of his tongue—along with him, as well.

Sighing in mock disappointment, Harry retracted his hand from his felled opponent's midsection, his pale hand now dripping with blood. He hadn't even been forced to morph the hand into its blade form it was so easy. Blade still between his fingers, he watched as Crouch crumpled to the ground, his grip on the scythe lost.

His attention was almost immediately caught by the arrival of his second opponent, a darker side of him deeply wishing that this new foe would grant him a better challenge than Barty had been able to deliver. Almost as if his wish had been granted, he watched as multiple, sharp tentacles shot down at him, impaling the ground all around him, while his men deftly avoiding getting skewered.

Harry raised an eyebrow. Had this been a purposeful miss, or was the enemy just that incompetent?

"_POTTER!!_" he heard the feminine scream and grinned.

"Narcissa…" he realized, his grin turning vicious as he used his two-finger grip to flip the scythe around and grasped the handle.

"_DIE!!_" he heard Narcissa cry out, a trail of red blood flowing around her—no doubt as a result of her rather severe wounds. Squinting, he could make out thirty tentacles forming on the front of her body.

As before, he grinned viciously at the sight. He was tired of playing armchair general anyway. Scythe in hand, he twisted his body around slightly, embedded a _considerable_ amount of _Diffindo_ magic into the blade, then just as quickly twisted back around and launched the spell off the scythe blade up at the incoming blonde, his grin unforgiving and feral. "You first," he countered.

Seeing the incoming spell, Narcissa launched as many of her tentacles as she could, fully intent on at least taking down Harry with her. What she did not expect, however, was that the spell was both considerably stronger than _anything_ Ginny had ever thrown at her, and that it was _much_ faster, quickly taking down many of her tentacles as it raced towards her.

Without any chance of dodging or warning, the spell slammed right into her midsection, making her scream as much as she now could as it literally bisected her. As her top half slammed down hard at his feet, he watched the bottom portion of the blonde's body land several feet away, large pools of blood forming at the stumps. Even then, he was amazed at the fact that the blonde was still alive.

In fact, she was trying to claw at his pants, but a quick kick to her arms quickly put a stop to that. Looking down, he saw that she seemed intent on giving him a parting few—no doubt hateful—words, but he wasn't nearly willing to tolerate anything of the sort, and so quickly brought down the scythe's blade on the woman's neck, instantly severing it from her irremediably severed and damaged upper torso.

And just like that, all of Riddle's lieutenants had met their end.

It was, in Harry's mind, quite anti-climactic. After all, there was no grand, self-sacrificing action on the part of _any_ of them that would have hindered his upcoming fight with the big bad himself. Nor had there been much of an effort needed to dispatch them—though, granted, they _were_ critically injured. Furthermore, it solidified his opinion that Riddle had done some slip-shod work, meaning that he had very little actual understanding in the workings of Venati-Human hybridization. Lastly, it told him that he needn't be too harsh on his altered subordinates, as enough time would have undoubtedly resulted in the deaths of their targets.

Speaking of which…

Harry felt them first, then saw Ginny, Nathaniel, and the Japanese Emperor appear before him—with Ginny the only one kneeling before him. Giving a greeting nod to Nathaniel, he then proceeded to give the Emperor a dignified bow.

"You came," he observed rather redundantly. "I thank you both for your assistance this day."

Nathaniel grinned, while the Emperor was more reserved and merely nodded back. "We were happy to assist in any way, Potter-san," the Emperor said calmly. "After all, what are allies for, if not to fight for each other?"

Harry gave the man a smile before turning to Nathaniel. "I trust the matter at Serpent Fortress was…rectified?"

Nathaniel's grin widened. "Sure was. Glassed the whole damn place," he assured him. "All of Riddle's secret golem and mercenary army was effectively destroyed. Good thing, too—it kinda looked like they were thinking of heading this way."

"Good thing indeed," agreed the Emperor, who had piggybacked his own military forces with the Americans. "It was not much of a fight, however. We caught them completely by surprise."

Harry nodded, then slowly smiled as he felt something stirring in his magical senses. "Very good," he congratulated the two loudly, before giving them both a smirk. "Though, if I were you, I would retreat to the lines now," he warned.

Out of the three, only Ginny seemed to understand what was at hand. The Emperor, taking the lead, quickly asked, "Why is that, Potter-san?"

He was quickly answered by the massive magical outburst that suddenly exploded from the castle. Unlike before, however, it wasn't an MS-5. It wasn't a shockwave of _any_ kind, in fact. What it was, however, was a beacon, a warning. It was the signal flare that Harry had been waiting for, driving for this entire fight.

Riddle was coming out to play.

"I believe the guest of honour has finally decided to show," he answered simply, the visible pillar of magic surrounding the castle compounded by the sudden surge in Venati that exploded from the portals, quickly replenishing their battlefield numbers.

He turned his head back to his bodyguards. "Head back to the lines," he ordered simply. "Tell General Sulu to put every man he can into the front lines. However much they were attacked before, this is going to be fifty times worse."

The ADST sergeant only hesitated a second before nodding and saluting. "Yes, sir!" the man barked, before ordering his men to fall back to the lines, leaving Harry with Nathaniel, the Emperor, and Ginny.

Harry glanced at both the Emperor and Nathaniel then. "Please fall back as well, my friends," he requested, knowing full well they were not technically under his orders. "It would help more if you were there to aid General Sulu in his defence."

"And the Second Gate?" asked the Emperor, glancing back at said structure.

Harry smiled. "I am certain they will be fine."

"Won't Riddle aim for them, though?" asked Nathaniel, slightly apprehensive from the massive amount of magic being concentrated in Hogwarts Castle.

Harry shook his head. "His fight is with me, and he knows it. As long as I draw breath, he won't go for anyone else."

The Emperor and Nathaniel exchanged brief glances before nodding once at Harry and, like the ADST bodyguard detachment, fell back to the front lines of General Sulu's detachment, leaving their friend alone with his wife.

There was a brief moment of silence between the two—Ginny still kneeling—before the redhead spoke up.

"I'm sorry!" she apologized, a note of desperation in her voice. Harry rose a curious eyebrow at this gesture.

"Whatever for?" he asked calmly, though he had a very good idea.

"I couldn't kill her," she explained, motioning to Narcissa's trisected remains. "She…surprised me, and damn near killed me if it wasn't for the Emperor."

Harry gave her an amused smirk, lowering his hand to gently lift up her chin so that she would gaze up at his face. "It's quite alright," he assured her. "I needed a warm-up anyway, love."

Ginny blushed at the endearment, but took his acceptance at face value. With a firm nod, she quickly devolved back into her professional persona. "Where do you want me for this fight?" she asked seriously.

Harry smiled, pleased to see that Ginny could regain her professional demeanour so easily. "Please fall back as well," he told her, before giving her a serious stare. "Only interfere if I give the word, understand? We cannot be putting all of our pieces on the board from the get-go in this fight. Riddle is far too dangerous."

Ginny nodded, before remembering to tell him about Neville. "Harry, N-Neville, he…" she started, before he quickly used his hand at her chin to put his index finger on her lips, silencing her.

He gave her a melancholic nod. "I know," he assured her. He did, too. Being one of the most magically-sensitive members of the Armed Forces, he had felt his friend's death the second it had happened. It had nearly made him drop the shield. "Susan took care of his killer," he informed Ginny in turn.

Ginny nodded back. "Good," she said grimly. She then stood to face him, got on her toes, and gave him a soft peck on the lips. "For luck," she told him with a grin before again making her signature hand motion and whispering her escape incantation. "See you in a bit, darling. _Avolo!_"

Smiling at the kiss his darling wife had given him before disappearing, Harry watched as the pillar of magic surrounding Hogwarts Castle gradually dissolved. The more it did, the more certain he was that Riddle had finally decided to come out and fight. More importantly, he was also certain that, given the man's seeming obsession with the Venati _and_ immortality, he would fuse with a Venati as well. It was a death sentence, Harry knew, but he figured that Riddle didn't.

Watching the Venati horde forming on the grounds before him, Harry sighed. He would have to make things a bit more even, he supposed. Placing his hands together, palms flat and facing the ground, he gathered as much Venati magic as he could muster at the moment and channelled it to his hands, which he then proceeded to slam into the ground.

To Ginny's surprise, as she watched from the front lines, Harry somehow managed to pull off the blonde's technique that had nearly ended her life, had it not been for a timely jump.

_Torment of the Underworld._

There was a major difference, though. Where Narcissa's spikes had been thick, numerous, and maybe ten feet tall, Harry's were thin, even _more_ numerous, and easily fifteen feet in height. The result was that a veritable _forest_ of needles had formed on the grounds, impaling Venati after Venati as they sprung up from the ground. The Venati that remained were, in his opinion, of a much more manageable number—and while they could refill their ranks via the portals, it would take time; time that Riddle didn't have to wait around.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Harry grinned as he felt the pillar of magic finally evaporate. Whatever Riddle had done, he was now finished. Carefully observing the castle, Harry's smile widened in anticipation as he saw the roof of the Great Hall suddenly explode and a small figure flew up into the air, slowly adjusting its trajectory towards him.

Harry grinned as he slid into a ready stance, arms morphing into blade form. His mind wandered back to his three-step plan that led to this moment.

Step one: Force Riddle to reveal his Venati forces ahead of schedule.

Step two: Kill his Lieutenants.

Step three: Eliminate his reinforcements at Serpent Fortress.

And now, for the final stage of his plan.

Kill Riddle.

With all the force of a meteorite hitting the earth, the ground where Harry stood exploded with tremendous force as the two leaders of the opposing armies finally clashed for the final battle of the war.

* * *

_Post-A/N: Yes, only one of the fights was posted. Why? Two reasons: 1) I'm lazy as hell, and it's either this or get stuck waiting a month while I finish up every last essay and exam in this final semester of mine in University; and 2) Because when I first actually did attempt to write the other fights, I realized that they had no real impact on the overall final fight. The only reason I chose to write Narcissa vs. Ginny, for that matter, is because unlike Crouch or that other guy, I had actually introduced Narcissa as a fairly resilient and competent fighter previously, and I figured she thus deserved an actual, written conclusion to her life, as opposed to Messrs. "Crazy as Hell" Crouch and "Who's-that-guy?" Dolohov. Suffice to say, Susan beat the life out of Dolohov, and as shown, Crouch was completely schooled by Harry, after having been put through Pike's meat grinder-like skills._

_All of this being said, however, I now have two important notices to give:_

_1. I have now officially put up a poll on my Author page for votes on which story I should put up next. The choices being offered are "Emperor" and "For King and Country." For summaries on both, check the Future Projects section in my profile._

_2. A quick, review-based poll. I want to know: do any of you want Neville to come back? I know I said I killed him, but as this is fanfiction, and the Valkyrie Project seems still sufficiently shrouded in mystery, I figure I could pull out a somewhat rational explanation for why he didn't die. Mind you, his return to life in this case would be the very last time I would ever do this. Any time after this story, I will fully reserve the right to off anyone I want. I'm only doing it this time because the whole idea gave me a bad taste in my mouth, despite how necessary it was to have Susan go magically ape-shit on Dolohov's sorry arse._

_Anyway, cheers. - MB_

_**Glossary:**_

_**Kage Shibari - Shadow Bind (kudos to Narutoverse for this)**_

_**Oodama no Kaze - Wind Scythe**_

_**Kokuangyo no Mahou - Bringer-of-Darkness of Magic (again, inspired by Narutoverse)**_

_Yes, I know I might have gotten some of these wrong. I fully admit to my suckage at Japanese.**  
**_


	53. Chapter XLVI: Clash of the Titans

_AN: Forewarning: This chapter is **entirely** made up of fighting...with a few exceptions granted by lulls in between attacks. Plus, longest chapter I've **EVER** written...just for the finale. Hope it meets your standards. Final Author's Notes at the very bottom._

* * *

Initially, the cloud of dust that the impact had caused had blinded everyone from seeing the two opposing leaders fight it out. However, as the dust settled, two figures could be seen squaring off, their footsteps slow and deliberate as they circled each other, their hands raised into their respective fighting stances. As far as anyone could see, their limbs were still fully human.

Harry smirked at his opponent, a vindicated look on his face. "I knew you'd come," he taunted. "Three steps, remember?"

Riddle snarled. "Don't remind me. Incompetent fools, all of them!"

Harry laughed heartily at that, yet never once tore his gaze from his opponent. "Serves you right for meddling with things you just don't understand."

"But you do?"

Harry smirked confidently. "Of course. I was the first."

Riddle glared. "Then by the end of our fight…" he growled, his arms slowly morphing into the same bladed shape that Harry had his in, "_I'LL BE THE ONLY ONE!"_

Harry wasted no time in countering the incoming blow with his own morphed arm, noting that the whole attack was just too telegraphed to be true. There was simply _no way_ Riddle was this sloppy.

Thus, he kept his free arm tucked at his side, waiting for the moment when his opponent would throw the hidden blow. Yet, to his surprise, it didn't come, and for a moment, he actually considered the idea that Riddle was just not that good a fighter—hell, perhaps the rumours of the snake-man's skills had been exaggerated? It wouldn't be the first time such a thing happened.

And then, Harry was brought crashing back to reality as he realized that Riddle had been _expecting_ his opponent's suspicion, taking advantage of it by suddenly doubling the amount of weight he put on his blocked attack, and pushing down on Harry's arm so much that the raven-haired Air Field Marshall had to hastily bring up his free arm to help push back the blow.

Only to realize that Riddle had pulled back his left arm from the encounter. An arm which, by the way, was racing up to impale him in the stomach.

Bending backwards at an unhealthy angle, Harry swore as he watched the blade race mere millimetres from his face, having dodged the lethal blow by sheer reflex. A nanosecond later, and he'd have been done for.

Of course, he might _still_ be done for, considering the incoming chop from above, which he had failed to realize had suddenly become free of blocking once he bent backwards.

"_FUCK!_" he yelled in frustration, flipping himself to the side as Riddle proceeded to chop right into the ground, leaving behind a very noticeable and deep gash on the already marred landscape.

Riddle, for his part, seemed amused at the fact that his opponent was essentially on the run.

"What's the matter, Potter?" he taunted. "Don't tell me this is all you've got! Aren't you supposed to be some big damn hero?" he mocked.

Harry, for his part, couldn't help but coax the rising excitement in his chest. This was it. This was what he'd been looking for all throughout the war. No weaklings for opponents, no crazy, moronic adversaries. An equal—or, even better, a _superior_. Even though Rodolphus Lestrange had occasionally given him quite the workout, this was nothing on that level. Hell, _he_ wasn't on that level anymore. He craved a challenge, and the fact that the opponent of his dreams was the only thing standing between him and total victory? Icing on the cake, I tell you.

Rising to his feet, Harry morphed his arms back into their human shape, instantly gathering his magical energy into his palms and forcing them into visible, magical spheres that were pulsing with magical energy. As he watched Riddle calmly analyze the spheres, he couldn't help but chuckle. "Oh, don't you fret, Tom," he mocked right back. "I'm not done yet. Not by a long shot."

Without any further warning, he launched himself forward, his arms trailing behind as they carried the magical spheres, the violet light that formed them pulsating wildly as the spheres seemed to gradually degrade in integrity. With just a glance, however, Riddle knew said orbs were bad news. Of the type that got you intimately acquainted with Pain and his friend Death.

Thus, Riddle not being a complete moron, he quickly cast his strongest shield and watched as Harry flung his arms forward and rammed the spheres into the shield. To no one's surprise (well, at least not to the surprise of those fighting), the spheres collided with the magical barrier and quickly proved how unbelievably fortuitous it had been of Riddle to erect the hasty spell. With all the tenacity of a raging rhino, the spheres essentially tore the shield apart, and thankfully for Riddle, the spherical energy dissipated with that attack.

Which incidentally left Harry wide open.

Still grinning, Harry quickly brought up a morphing arm as Riddle slashed at his neck, effectively blocking the blow while he tried to impale his opponent for his trouble. Likewise, the blow was countered expertly. Then Riddle disengaged from the first deadlock and tried another stabbing motion, which Harry countered before trying his own decapitating move, which was again blocked.

To anyone even just watching the fight—which was a feat in and of itself, considering the horde of Venati minions bum-rushing the Imperial lines—the two fighters seemed to be unapologetically ripping off each other's moves. Anything one used to attack, the other tried right after blocking, and so forth, such that no one seemed to be getting the upper hand. It made not a few soldiers wonder whether the two were even taking the fight seriously, since they didn't seem to be putting all that much brainpower in devising new strategies for attacking.

They were only half-right.

Neither Harry nor Riddle had truly put in any effort in devising new strategies, but they were both taking the fight quite seriously. It all boiled down to excitement, really. The two were, thanks to their little miming exchanges, realizing that they were on an almost perfectly equal footing, and this only served to increase the adrenaline-fuelled desire to elongate the fight as long as possible. Oh, they still hated each other's guts, and they would probably dance on the other's grave the moment they won, but that didn't mean they couldn't enjoy the fight as much as they could.

"You're not half bad," mused Riddle as they both leaned forward in their latest deadlock, desperate to beat the other through sheer strength rather than skill.

Harry smirked right back at his hybrid counterpart. "I could say the same," he conceded. "And here I thought you'd be weakened and all because of the fusion."

Riddle scoffed. "Shows what you know, Potter!" he shot back. "I've never felt more _alive_!"

With that somewhat creepily-said declaration, Riddle jumped backwards, suddenly breaking the deadlock and making Harry stumble forwards. Taking advantage of the split second opening, Riddle cackled as he took one step forward and simultaneously swung up one of his bladed arms, successfully slashing Harry's shoulder.

To Riddle's irritation, however, Harry merely jumped back, none the worse for wear. In fact, a black patch of skin was showing through the gash in his uniform, and it seemed, for the most part, unblemished and smooth. Harry had used his Venati genes to solidify his skin.

"So close!" taunted Harry. "But not good enough!"

Growling in a feral fashion, Riddle rushed his opponent head-on, which seemed to anyone watching a rather stupid move to make. Harry, however, knew that the only reason Riddle would ever do something so unequivocally idiotic would be if he was confident of his attack's success. After all, one did not obsess over immortality without also simultaneously breeding a healthy sense of caution that would make the most paranoid men on the planet look relaxed.

Sure enough, just as Riddle was about to take that last step to close in with Harry, he vanished from sight, and it was only through years of training that Harry was able to reflexively block the blow that was coming at his back. Both leaders were once again smiling with full blown grins of excitement.

"Not bad," praised Riddle, actually sounding rather honest.

"Nice speed," observed Harry right back before bringing up his free hand to make a hand gesture. "But you're not the only one who can move quickly! _Fulmini Vestigium!_"

To Riddle's surprise, Harry seemed to suddenly distort out of existence, as though he had been watching a bad television signal. Like Harry, it was only years of combat experience that made the older mage capable of deflecting the sudden blow to _his_ back. Glancing back, he was slightly shocked to see that Harry seemed to be radiating electric energy like a cloak, with sparks frequently forming at the edges.

"That's not the _Curro_ charm…" Riddle noted, sounding calm despite the surprise he was feeling. "But it seems to work in a similar fashion…your own creation?" he posited.

Harry smirked. "That's right," he confirmed. "The Lightning Step charm. Enhances _all_ cognitive, reflexive, and mechanical processes."

Riddle couldn't help the appreciative look in his eyes as he made singular eye contact with his nemesis. "That's quite the upgrade on a charm merely meant to enhance limb speed," he praised. "Very ingenious."

"I aim to please," Harry replied easily, before suddenly distorting out of view once more. Again, it was pure instinct that allowed Riddle to block the blow that would have skewered his heart.

Riddle had to admit, the boy was good. Better than good, in fact. Even Dumbledore had nothing on him, and _that_ was saying something, considering that for the better part of three decades, Riddle had considered the centenarian the closest thing to a rival. By that logic, Harry _was_ a rival—one on an equal footing, no less. While he might have felt threatened to the point of paranoid fury in the past, all that such a revelation did now was to fuel his lust for battle. Maybe it was a side-effect to being fused with the Venati? After all, it did feel like a primal need for combat that just seemed to become more and more insatiable with every passing blow.

Distortion after distortion, Riddle was hard pressed to keep up with the interminable assault on Harry's part. One moment he was attacking his back, and the next he was aiming at his solar plexus, before then going for his nape, and then his ribs. It was an insane assault, and only his Venati-enhanced reflexes kept him from getting pummelled into the ground.

Narrowing his eyes, Riddle noted that his opponent didn't once seem to be getting tired. An impressive feat, considering that the _Curro_ charm required constant mental regulation of magic and large quantities of it at the same time—with either component usually tiring out the user rather quickly.

This didn't seem to be happening with this _Fulmini Vestigium_ charm. If anything, it seemed to produce as little drain as possible, though he _knew_ magic was being used, as he could practically smell it on the younger man. It was truly too bad that they were enemies, or else he might have convinced Harry to teach him this amazing spell.

As it was, however, he had to quickly get out of this problem. While his reflexes were keeping him alive at the moment, he was still capable of feeling fatigue, and a sluggish reaction time would inevitably end with his death. Silently analyzing the raven-haired man's attack pattern, Riddle quickly found a weakness in his attacks. Or, rather, an opening for a counter.

Quietly, he started counting in his head between attacks, and consistently found there to be a lull of about a second between blows. Maybe it was an unintentional drawback to the spell, or a deliberate gap to draw him in, but regardless, he had to take a chance. Thus, subtly gathering magic to his left foot, he waited until Harry delivered another (blocked) blow before suddenly raising his foot and slamming it down on the ground, effectively splintering it due to the sheer force delivered.

As he'd planned, Harry suddenly appeared in thin air, looking so surprised he had released the spell. Taking advantage of this, the dark wizard launched himself at his opponent, his arms already morphing into their blade forms. Harry, however, was not the best fighter in the Empire for nothing. Even without his spell, his reflexes were top-notch, and he quickly brought up his arms in blocking motions that quickly stopped Riddle's attacks.

"Well done," he praised, the four limbs struggling against each other as they pushed forward and backwards in an attempt to break the deadlock in their favour. All of this in mid-air.

"I am to please," Riddle threw right back at him, mindful that gravity would soon make their little deadlock a moot point.

Harry seemed to realize this too, and quickly brought up his left leg to slam it into Riddle's right side, catching the dark mage off guard and allowing Harry to use the momentum to switch positions, such that Riddle would hit the ground first. Half-way through his flip, however, Harry had morphed one hand back into its human shape and grabbed a handful of the dark mage's robes, his other arm reared back to strike the man's back.

"Time to die, Riddle!" he shouted, launching his attack.

Only to immediately move his head sideways as a spike nearly nailed him between the eyes. Swearing, he kicked himself out of the way by using the spike as a springboard, just as the dark mage's back became riddled with spikes erupting from his the mage's robes.

"Damn porcupine," hissed Harry as he rolled on the ground and got right back into a ready stance, just as Riddle did the same.

"You really thought I'd forget to keep my rear guarded, Potter?" asked Riddle, amused.

Harry made no reply, instead lunging right at Riddle, his fist reared back and glowing with magical energy. Riddle quickly avoided getting punched in the face by shifting his head sideways, which Harry countered by bringing up his other hand into the dark mage's stomach.

Having no intentions of letting Harry go through with said attack, Riddle quickly sidestepped the second blow, and with his opponent now in mid-momentum, delivered a roundhouse kick to the Imperial leader's back, launching the raven-haired teen forward and into the ground, though not for long. Just as quickly as Riddle had avoided his attacks, Harry quickly rolled back into a combat stance, just in time to avoid getting skewered by two tentacle-blades and severed into pieces by three cutting curses. Not to be outdone, he crossed his now-human forearms in front of him and charged them with magic.

"_DIFFINDO!_" he roared, swinging both arms forward and releasing the spell, which Riddle deftly avoided by rolling forward, in turn shooting off three more curses of varying types.

As Harry deflected the spells, Riddle quickly closed ground with his opponent, fists ready to deliver magically-enhanced punches that would end the life of a common man. Being that neither were common men anymore, however, Harry was quick to dodge the punches and throw his own, which were equally blocked by the dark mage.

Jab after jab passed between the two, and it was Harry who connected the first hit, after over a dozen failures to land a hit. When it did, however, it caught Riddle in the left cheek, though the mage was quick on the uptake and retaliated with a blow to the stomach, causing Harry to feel lifted off his feet from the force of the impact.

It wasn't, however, enough to keep him from fighting though. Moving quickly to take advantage of the lift, he suddenly snapped his body backwards and made an impromptu back-flip, nailing Riddle in the chin with his combat boots. Then, upon regaining his foothold on the ground, he launched himself forward, managing to land hit after hit on the dark mage with his magically-enhanced fists. First, he went for the solar plexus, then followed up with a hit on the right cheek. Jumping slightly, he kneed Riddle in the stomach again, before spinning on his heel and nailing him in the neck with the back of his heel.

To his amazement, however, Riddle did not go down from the barrage, instead merely taking in the damage before moving in for his own attacks, a slightly deranged grin on his bruised face. Harry barely managed to get his guard up before Riddle hammered away at him, his magically enhanced fists pummelling at his equally magically-reinforced arms.

Flashes of magical energy continuously formed as magic hit magic, and yet neither man was willing to back down, using most of their magic not for spells, but for this enhanced battle of strength. Their attacking styles said more about them than any combination of words ever could.

Graceful, calculating, skilful, and vicious, Harry was the picture-perfect representation of the Empire's strength and its methods. No blow was ever launched blindly; no attack made without a carefully thought out plan.

Wild, powerful, cunning, and lethal, Riddle was the opposite of Harry and the Empire the man represented. While not as thoroughly calculating as his opponent, Riddle instinctively sought out those weak points where he would do the most damage and sought to exploit them to their utmost. But where Harry was ruled by reason, Riddle was ruled by his passions.

Riddle finally threw a punch that pushed Harry backwards from the blow, the concentrated magical energy that exploded from the impact enough to actually make him wince. Not one to show his discomfort to his enemy, however, he quickly separated his arms and readied himself for another onslaught as he launched himself as his opponent.

To his satisfaction, his first punch landed with a satisfying crack, smashing into Riddle's left cheek with all the force of a steel sledgehammer. Mind you, considering Riddle's fusion with a Venati, it also meant the bone structure was strong as hell, which made the blow painful to Harry as well—though nothing he couldn't handle. Either way, his next hit was far more efficient in hurting Riddle. Taking advantage of Riddle's dazed expression, he quickly landed another hit in the man's solar plexus, driving the wind right out of the dark mage's lungs, followed by two more blows to the chest, visibly lifting the older man from the ground by the sheer impact. Once airborne—even if by only a foot and a half—Harry quickly followed through with an uppercut to the man's chin, snapping his head back violently, which he then followed up with a mid-air roundhouse kick to the middle, launching Riddle backwards with extreme violence as the mage hit the ground roughly, spun across a fairly long distance helplessly, and finally landed in a heap. Meanwhile, Harry had landed and slid into a ready stance, in case his combo hadn't worked.

Even so, however, he was starting to breathe heavily. He didn't want to admit it, but between killing masses of Venati, sustaining a barrier against one of the most potent artillery barrages in human history, _and_ fighting the most powerful dark lord in history, he was starting to feel the strain. He wasn't out of the fight, however—not by a long shot—but he would have to be more careful from now on.

From the looks of it, Riddle was of a like mind, as the dark mage slowly rose from the ground, his arms trembling but holding as he pushed himself off the ground. Despite the bruised cheek, however, he seemed still willing and able to fight, though it was clear that the attack _had_ done some damage.

"Enough," he declared, drawing his magic onto his palms and keeping it there. "We've brawled enough. How about we test our skill in weaponry?" he suggested, pre-empting Harry's response by apparently conjuring a broadsword out of thin air.

Only, Harry knew better, and the raised eyebrows showed his immense surprise as he recognized what he'd just seen. Riddle hadn't conjured up a sword—those were structurally weak as hell—he had transfigured the very _air_ into the blade he was holding. That was magical mastery on a level that even he couldn't reach. So, instead, he bent down, grabbed a handful of dirt, and quickly worked at transfiguring it into a trident spear. His own mastery with the weapon was one of the reasons that the Dragon Lancers had all been trained in spear-fighting.

Riddle, however, wasted no time in closing in on his mortal enemy, his blade flashing in front of him as he launched attack after attack that only Harry's own skill with the spear allowed him to block. Had he been weaponless, he had no doubts that he'd be sporting quite a few nasty cuts. Quite obviously, he had not been privy to _all_ the information about Riddle's abilities, if this current contest was anything to go by. That was a fatal mistake—one that he would have to see corrected if he won this fight.

The clang of metal against metal resonated once, twice—three times and then a fourth as the spear and sword collided, their respective masters pushing every last inch of their physical and magical strength into their grips as they tried to overwhelm the other via sheer strength. It wasn't the most skilful exchange by far, but it spoke volumes of each one's powers as the very ground split from the amount of wind-based backlash railing against everything surrounding the two combatants.

Even the beleaguered fighters at both the front lines and the Second Gate couldn't help the admiration they felt as they afforded themselves to steal a glance or two intermittently while they fought. Despite the seemingly infinite wave of Venati rushing the Imperial positions, the most lethal duel in history still outshone every other fight on the battlefield. To those who knew Harry, however, it was also the source of great worry, as they did not see their fearless leader/friend/husband take the upper hand effortlessly as they had believed he might. Instead, it looked quite like Riddle was holding his own to the point where they could estimate his strength as being on par with Harry.

Which, all things considered, was pretty damn bad for their side.

Then, Harry decided to take a gamble with his next shot. Swinging his spear into a horizontal slash haphazardly, he banked on the idea that Riddle would block it easily, unsuspecting of any obscure motives. Sure enough, the dark mage did so, his masterly transfigured blade holding the spear's blade at bay with remarkable ease.

"Tsk…is that the best you've g—"

Riddle never got to finish his taunt, as Harry used the momentum caused by the block to swing his body upwards and forward, landing a nice kick to the side of Riddle's head, causing the older man to grunt in pain as his head whipped to the side, his body following suit until they crashed into the ground with a loud thudding sound.

Harry wasn't done, however, and quickly moved in for the kill, his trident spear speared into the ground as he realized that his skill with the spear would simply not match the dark mage's own skill in weaponry. Instead, he went with the tried and true—his fists. Fortunately, he was educated in more than just street brawling. His eyes narrowed, he drew back both fists to his side as he dashed forward.

Calculating appropriately, he waited for the correct moment to lash out with his right hand, resulting in a connecting hit to Riddle's throat with the space between his index and thumb, causing the recuperating mage to stumble backwards, choking and reeling from the surprise hit, and then outright throwing up a little when Harry's follow-up fist connected with his stomach with the impact of a sledge hammer.

"Woodpecker Style!" Harry announced as he quickly returned to his original stance, fired up his _Fulmini Vestigium_ spell, and then launched himself forward just as Riddle shakily stood back up. "The first hit!" His fist connected with Riddle's face. "Second hit!" Riddle's neck. "Third hit!" his right shoulder socket. "Fourth hit!" his _left_ shoulder socket. "Fifth! Sixth! Seventh! EIGHTH!"

The blows kept coming as Harry severely mauled his opponent with the increasingly rapid intensity of a woodpecker. Each blow was calculated to land on a socket, important nerve cluster, organ, or just anywhere in general that could cause massive amounts of physical pain.

Every technique, however, had its end, and Harry neared his in less than a minute, thereby demonstrating the awe-inspiring speed necessary for the particular style.

"The two-hundred and thirteenth hit!" Harry roared then, delivering a beautifully performed butterfly kick that launched Riddle up in the air. Harry disappeared from sight, and quickly reappeared right next to Riddle's flailing and bruised body, a glowing hammer kick already in motion. "FINAL HIT: **GRAVEMAKER**!"

As its name indicated, the magically enhanced blow from the axe visibly hit Riddle with the force of a cannon ball, effectively launching Riddle at even _greater speed_ towards the ground, where, beyond the obvious thudding sound of his body making contact with the ground, the sound of bones snapping and cracking all over the mage's body also resonated. It was clear that, no matter _what_ Riddle did, he would _not_ be getting up from that combination.

Landing deftly on the ground, Harry had to stop himself from collapsing from the sheer physical and magical strain that the entire thing had incurred on him. Contrary to popular belief, being the most powerful warrior in the world—or, at least, one of them—did _not_ make one immune to exhaustion, and having to deliver 214 consecutive, _magically enhanced_ hits in roughly sixty seconds was about as strenuous as you could get.

Well, what _really_ got to him was the fact that he had finally found someone he could use the Woodpecker Style on without reservations. So lethal was it that he could not use it on another human being without guaranteeing that person's demise. Thus, whenever he practised it, he had to use a wooden dummy _covered_ with impact seals to tell him how much damage was being done. Unfortunately, nine times out of ten, he didn't need the seals to tell him, as the dummy would collapse into a pile of firewood by the fiftieth hit.

Of course, he had never been able to test the technique on its originally intended target, as Rodolphus had died at Harrisburg without much in the way of a real fight. Riddle, however, had shown too much skill for him to pull any punches, and if the conditions they had previously set were being followed, then Riddle was fighting at full strength, which meant that Harry couldn't underestimate him anymore. Better to just get him out of the fight immediately than dragging it out and letting the dark mage use his entire bag of tricks.

Exhilaration swept through him then as he realized what he had just accomplished. Riddle was dead. There was a 99.9% certainty of that fact. No human body could sustain that amount of consecutive damage in one piece—not even a body reinforced by the Venati's chitin armour (as a poor, steel-wrought dummy back at the family manor would attest to). It would be like getting tossed out of an airplane _without_ a chute, hitting the ground, and then getting run over by a speeding _train_—and _surviving_. It was just _that_ impossible.

He could even hear the dim sound of people shouting in joy, coming from both the Second Gate and the front lines. Apparently, everyone had been a witness to the final bout that had finally put the darkest mage in history into his grave. Now, all that needed to be done was to sweep away the last Venati and…

Harry froze.

Why were the Venati numbers not decreasing?

With Riddle's death, the summoning portals should have collapsed from a lack of summoning magic. Yet, for all intents and purposes, the Venati horde was _not_, in fact, decreasing in number, but rather _increasing steadily_. Moreover, why weren't they attacking him? Why did they just keep passing around the small area that they had provided for Riddle and he to duke it out? With his death, he should have become the most immediate threat to their existence, and yet they were ignoring him just as much as they had when Riddle was alive.

A chill went down his spine as an unbidden thought flashed in his mind.

It couldn't be…

…could it?

Turning around slowly, his gaze went immediately to where he'd seen Riddle's body hit the ground at Mach 4. As he had suspected, it was a damned bloody mess, and it was completely still—as befitting a corpse. Seeing some of Riddle's ribcage piercing through his skin, having cracked entirely into jagged pieces, and his left arm torn off, along with the left femur jutting out morbidly and the clavicle completely pulverized, Harry had no doubts that Riddle _had_ to be dead.

…so why weren't the portals gone? Was there a second summoner?

Quickly, he closed his eyes and poured out masses of magic throughout the valley, immediately seeking out any magical signatures in case they had missed someone. Considering their information, there should only have been _three_ lieutenants under Riddle, and his current scan showed that they were gone—with two as a direct result of his intervention. The third one—Dolohov, if he wasn't mistaken—had apparently been killed by Susan. It was also at this time that he realized that something was off with his fourth favourite redhead—her magical signature was…wonky, for lack of a better term. Narrowing his eyes, he quickly thought up of a dozen reasons why this would be, but quickly dismissed them as he remembered his original purpose and resumed his search.

To his consternation, there wasn't anyone unaccounted for. Literally everyone that was supposed to be on the field, was.

And that's when he felt it.

Harry had always imagined that he had felt true fear in his life. After all, at the age of 15, he had already come face to face with a Venati, and had _died_ at its hands. Since then, there had been very little in the way of comparable situations when he had truly felt fear for his life. The Death Eaters were, in his mind, just human, like him—they could easily die in any number of ways. The golems were simple constructs, also capable of dying with ease. Magical creatures, like Vampires, Trolls, and any other sort of mystical beast were also killable—each with their own weaknesses. Rationally, this also applied to Venati, but they had been so incomparably deadly, so elevated above the rest of nature's deadly fauna, that he had, at the time, felt like he had seen the true face of despair.

He had pushed, for years after the event, for the development of magical projectiles and weaponry, leading to the government giving the go-ahead for Archangel and hiring his sister and brother-in-laws for weapons development. With that, he had assumed he had levelled the playing field to the point where his rational fear of the Venati could no longer be accepted as valid. He had made them vulnerable to the common human being, and that meant they were no longer impossibly mighty.

And yet, all that confidence, all that rational belief in his fellow human beings, was instantly and irrevocably swept aside at that moment.

Beads of sweat were racing down his visage as his athletic figure trembled like a leaf in the wind. His eyes were wide and his pupils dilated to mere dots amongst a white background. His teeth were painfully grinding against each other as he worked hard to prevent himself from screaming in fear.

All this, and he had not even been touched once. It was all in the unequivocally _evil_ presence slowly amassing where Riddle's body was lying still. The worst part was the instinctive, magical odour it was letting off.

It _reeked_ of Venati.

But this was different. This was no result of hybridization. Nor was it a common Venati. This was so much more. To say anything different would be to compare this feeling to an ant being mistaken for a diplodocus. It was so far beyond his own powers, he could barely even keep standing just from the presence it was emitting.

Slowly, he opened his eyes as he mentally forced himself to ignore the crippling fear that was gripping his body. Ever inch of him was screaming for him to cut his losses and run, but he knew that would amount to nothing. If this was Venati, then were wouldn't be a place on Earth where he could hide that they wouldn't eventually find and consume.

As his eyes opened, the sight before him amply reinforced his fear.

As stated previously, Riddle's body was, for lack of a better word, completely decimated from the Woodpecker Style combo that Harry had inflicted on him. And yet, before his very eyes, the body was slowly reconstructing itself. The bones were slowly drawing themselves back into the body, and wounds were closing. Where Riddle's head had snapped open, the wound was regenerating itself, until not a visible mark of destruction was left on it.

Anyone else would have been amazed by such a sight, but not Harry; Harry was _terrified_ of what it meant. His own wounds, while quick to heal, would never be able of such large-scale regeneration. He could not, for instance, grow a new arm, or leg. Appendages that were lost, were lost. Riddle, on the other hand, was completely ignoring the severed left arm lying mere meters from him, and was regenerating one from _scratch_. Which, biologically speaking, should have been _impossible_.

"What the hell is going on?" he managed to mumble out.

And then he heard it laugh.

Unlike Riddle, whose laughter was typically full of malice, but also excitement and challenge, this laugh was just malicious—period. There was not a single other emotion recognizable in the tone, and immediately, it told Harry that this was not Riddle he was dealing with anymore.

"What did that stupid bastard do?" he mumbled to himself, forcing his trembling body to slide into a ready stance.

He watched on silently as the body slowly slid itself up onto its feet, the head bowed down and the arms dangling limply in front of it. He could still see the shoulders shaking from amusement, and felt his own dread increase at the whole morbid spectacle.

Then the body lifted its head, and Harry cringed at the sight.

Riddle's eyes, corrupted by foul magic, had been red in colour. This new…entity, however, had eyes of darkest black. Even that didn't aptly describe it, however. More accurately, its eyes were the colour of the _absence_ of colour of any kind.

"…Who are you?" Harry finally asked hesitantly. He felt a chill run down his spine when Riddle's body grinned maliciously.

"…_**So…you're the hybrid that man was so intent on killing?**_" the body spoke, its voice distorted and deep. "_**…pathetic. You cannot even stand still before the presence of a true Venati!**_"

Harry's trembling stopped at that moment, the creature's words sounding off alarm bells in his mind. True Venati? What the hell was _that_ all about?

"What do you mean?" he asked tentatively, deciding to chance the question. The body laughed uproariously at his question.

"_**FOOL!**_" it suddenly roared in ager. "_**You fight the weakest of our collective species, and you think you've seen our POWER?! WE, WHO HAVE CONSUMED ENTIRE WORLDS TO SATIATE OUR ETERNAL HUNGER?!**_"

Riddle's body slowly spread its arms out to either side, the twisted grin returning to its face. "_**Witness now…**__**the depths of your **__**IGNORANCE!**_"

Harry flinched back as an explosion of magic suddenly erupted where Riddle's body had stood. His arms rose to fend off the wind and dust lashing at his face, all the while making sure his defensive posture would keep his vital points from getting hit outright. To his relief, the explosion seemed to be more cosmetic than damaging, and as it quickly died down, so too did his stance return to its ready form.

…For all of two seconds.

Harry felt his jaw actually drop—something he always thought only happened in books and cartoons—as he processed the sight before him. Riddle's body, for all intents and purposes, was _gone_. Instead, there stood a monstrosity that could _never_ be described as human. Though it held a vaguely humanoid resemblance, it was quite clear that it was _not_, in fact, human. The arms had twisted themselves and reshaped into the Venati's chitin armour—in fact, all of its skin had gone that same metamorphosis—but the hands had completely disappeared, making way for elongated, nightmarish claws whose individual digits lay at a good three feet long on the right hand, each as sharp as the most devotedly crafted blade. The left hand, for its part, amassed itself with so much chitin armour that it looked more like a crude club. Its legs resembled those of a bird, with the knee jutting out behind, rather than in front, and the feet looked like vicious talons.

The most horrid part, however, was the head. Where Riddle's human face had once been, now there was no such thing. The nose had disappeared outright; the eyes were replaced by two, void-coloured orbs that had no eyelids or any other human trait. Its lips were gone, and while its mouth was still remotely human in appearance, it nonetheless had a gash parting the lower end perfectly in two, and the teeth behind them were quite obviously jagged incisors, meant for the consuming of meat. Where there was once hair on top of Riddle's scalp, now were thousands of the spikes he had been able to call up through Torment of the Underworld, all of them pointed behind him like some sort of crazy, Japanese hairstyle he sometimes saw in his men's books.

It was not a human body. It was a body designed for preying.

"God above…" he swore, his eyes wide as they _attempted_ to process the nightmarish figure before him accurately. Yet, even with his thoughts racing at maximum speed, he could not, for the life of him, develop any sort of conclusive plan for dealing with such a being. Hell, up until _right now_, he had _no _idea such a thing even _existed!_

The creature before him grinned toothily, full of malice. "_**God?**_" it mocked. "_**If there is such a deity, you can be sure we'll consume him, too.**_"

Harry couldn't help the shiver that went through him at that statement. The way it was delivered—so full of confident malice—made him actually _believe_ that statement, even if for just a few seconds.

"I say again, _creature_, what are you?" he demanded with false bravado. He knew he was _hopelessly_ outmatched, but he couldn't let the creature know that.

Despite such an attempt, however, it seemed clear that the creature saw right through him, and smirked arrogantly. "_**What are we?**_" it asked mockingly, spreading its arms in such a way that its clawed hands were aimed at the sky receptively. "_**We are the Harbinger of your end! Summoners of the endless Venati hordes! Consumers of countless worlds! WE…ARE…PRIME!**_" it introduced itself with a roar.

It wasn't the roar itself that affected Harry the most, but rather the outright _evil_ presence that the creature exuded from every pore of its body, suffocating him with the sheer weight of its malevolent power. Then, quicker than he could process _or_ react, even by instinct, he felt a sharp jab of pain in his chest, and widened his eyes as he realized he'd been viciously stabbed there by one of the creature's elongated digits, a bored look on its face.

"_**And now…you see the futility of fighting us,**_" it said in a very level tone. It almost sounded out of place with the creature. "_**We are Venati, and you are prey. Kill as many of our lesser brethren as you wish, but for the true Venati, even your most powerful is not enough.**_"

Slowly, the creature withdrew the impaled digit and watched as blood flowed freely from Harry's chest wound, even as the raven haired human leader fell to his knees, still unable to process just how quickly he had been taken down. This was all so _wrong!_ Nothing he had ever predicted could account for this eventuality! Weren't Venati all uniform in shape and power? Wasn't that the point? How…how could he have overlooked such a horrifying possibility as a separation of castes within the Venati ranks?

"_HARRY!_" he heard someone shout…someone feminine. Ginny, probably. He could not check, remaining in his kneeling position before the Venati Prime, his senses slowly leaving him as his body tried, but failed to recuperate from the devastating wound to his chest. His oesophagus was damaged, probably beyond repair, and his two lungs had, at best, probably been nicked by the attack. At worst, they were also hit and he was either going to expire from either blood loss or from drowning in his own blood. Either way, not a pretty way to go.

The Prime merely gazed down at the hybrid before it with boredom. "_**You have done well, to come this far, prey**_," it congratulated, even if in a totally deadpan tone. "_**Not many before you can be said to have caused our plans to get set back over and over again with such frequency. But this is as far as you go**_," slowly the Prime raised its right arm and joined its digits together into a spear-like shape. "_**This is the limit of your puny race. But fear not, hybrid; your genetic material, your power…it will all live on within the Venati. Your death will strengthen us, and we will understand how such a communion came to pass. Goodbye, hybrid.**_" His farewell given, the Prime launched his arm forward, intent on finishing the hybrid before him without any further delay. No sense in delaying the consumption of good genetic material. With the absorption of both Riddle _and_ this hybrid, the Prime would become powerful enough to single-handedly take down everyone else in this pathetic valley.

* * *

"Like _HELL!_" someone shouted, just as his limb came into contact with something solid and was deflected away from its original target.

The Prime narrowed its orb-like eyes. "_**Who dares impede the feeding of a Prime?!**_" he spat out. Before him, one of the female prey was standing, her clothing billowing as the wind picked up, her glowing, lined hands before her as she held up a magical shield that protected herself and the hybrid behind her.

Ginny narrowed her eyes dangerously at the Venati, having pushed aside her suffocating fear the moment she had seen the creature's attempt to end her husband's life. "_I_ dare, you sodding _monstrosity!_" she spat right back. "No matter _what_ happens, you're having a bath if you think I'm letting you _near_ my husband!" Then, with a grunt, she drew back her arms and made a pushing motion with both of them, causing the shield to push right back against the strained Venati limb and successfully pushing it off course enough that the Prime actually stumbled backwards from the sudden strain against his arm.

The Prime, however, was not even fazed by the sudden interruption, and merely narrowed its eyes as it sent forth both limbs, each one suddenly splitting into hundreds of malleable spikes that raced to skewer the redhead.

Only for them to suddenly stop in place as though something grabbed a hold of them. Angrily, the Prime looked to the side, where it felt magical energy being dispensed. To his fury, the male prey with slanted eyes was continuously chanting something, and the Prime could see, with its Venati eyes, that thousands of magical limbs had extended from the man and were holding its own attack back.

"Your opponent is me, creature!"

"_**MORE PESTS?!**_" it roared, struggling to release its limbs from captivity. Yet, somehow, the male prey was managing to hold fast, even as beads of sweat formed on his brow.

The Emperor, for his part, was looking at Ginny, his chanting slowing down to a halt, though the truth was that it only served to increase the power of his spell by a full order of magnitude, so he didn't need to keep chanting to keep it active.

"How is he?" he shouted over at Ginny, meaning Harry.

Ginny, for her part, had released the shield and was working furiously at healing the gaping wound in her husband's chest. "Critical!" she shouted right back. "We need more time! This isn't some superficial wound, you know!"

The Emperor grimaced at the prognosis. It wasn't that he didn't have faith that his comrades couldn't heal the dying Duke, but rather that he was himself going to run dry _well_ before the task was complete. As it was, he was already straining to keep the Prime from skewering his redheaded friend, and from the calculating look it was giving him, it knew this too.

"_**How admirable…**_" the Prime practically purred, its voice laced with malevolent intent. "_**Such determination from such pathetic creatures of flesh and bone. But how long can you resist the inevitable? How long will it be before your will breaks before ours?**_"

The Emperor gave the creature a defiant, yet strained smirk. "You do not know much about our species, creature, if you believe that horrible odds will stop us from resisting to the bitter end," he informed the Prime as calmly as he could, right before switching back to his chanting when he felt one of the trapped spikes twitch outside his control.

The Prime, however, had noticed its ability to move slightly, and gave the Emperor an anticipatory smile. "_**You feel it, do you not? The strain of innumerable Venati, pushing against your pathetic attempt at stopping us…**_" its voice was silky and smooth, burrowing deep into the Emperor's psyche as it kept speaking. "_**Accept it. Revel in it. Embrace the power of the Infinite Horde and surrender to the inevitable!**_"

It took every inch of his willpower to keep the Emperor from obeying the Prime. It horrified him that such manipulative power existed, enough to even test his own steel will. Still, he shut his eyes, continued his chant, and kept the spikes at bay, hoping to buy the Duchess enough time to heal their downed champion.

"_**Why do you fight? Why do you persist in your useless fight against fate?**_" the Prime kept going, and from the sound of it, enjoyed every second of it. "_**Do you not see the inevitable? Do you not understand that, as with every other race we have consumed, yours is but another in a long line of death, misery, and eternal hunger? Do you truly believe that with our death, the Venati will stop? We do not stop, little prey…oh no…even if one of us falls, twenty thousand shall rise to take its place!**_"

"Then we'll kill _them_ too!" shouted a voice from above, followed by three separate yells of exertion.

"_**What?!**_"

To everyone's surprise, the spikes that the Emperor was holding back suddenly collapsed to the ground, having been severed from the Prime's control the physical way. Amidst the fallen limbs stood Nathaniel Pike, with Charlie Weasley and Catherine Foster crouching beside him in perfect triangular formation. The Emperor, for the first time in quite a while, actually allowed himself to sigh in relief as he let go of the spell, his magic finally regenerating, albeit slowly.

"So this is Venati?" asked Foster, having turned to face the Prime. "It's…a lot more intimidating than I thought," she admitted, barely able to conceal the unstoppable shaking of her legs.

Charlie scoffed, though he was similarly terrified of the being before him. "So what?" he challenged, twirling his spear before stopping the motion so that the pole ended underneath his armpit. "Even if it takes three, four more hits, it can still die."

Nathaniel grinned at Charlie's bravado, knowing it was more empty than anything. "Well said," he agreed.

The Prime, for its part, was openly scoffing at the boasting. "_**Strike as you wish, foolish prey! Three or four bug bites…what is it to the mightiest creature in creation?!**_"

Nathaniel grinned at the implied challenge. "Well…how about we find out?" he shot back, sprinting forward with Charlie and Foster at his sides. With one hand motion, Nathaniel's Valkyrie enhancements came alive, decorating his body with the blue lines of conducted magic.

Now loose from the Emperor's spell, however, the Prime was quick to react to the incoming threats. Lifting its left arm to meet the incoming attackers, the limb once again split into thousands of malleable spikes, each of them racing towards the trio with all the unpredictability of a mass of snakes, each moving independently from each other, as though possessing minds of their own.

Not that Nathaniel was worried. With a grin, he made covert hand signals to Charlie and Foster, who both responded with an affirmative grunt and suddenly jumped high in the air—Foster's jump being boosted with the aid of Charlie's magic. Predictably, the Prime's tentacles diverted to face what it assumed was the greatest threat, meaning the airborne duo. Taking full advantage of this, Nathaniel buried the tip of his lance into the ground and used the weapon as a springboard, aimed directly at the mass of rising spikes aiming to skewer his friends. Then, in mid-air, he twisted his body in an astounding feat of acrobatics and, gathering magic to his heel, delivered a reverse roundhouse to the mass of spikes.

Though the blow should have technically only affected the spikes he hit, the way he had gathered his magical energy at his heel ensured that an area of effect was established the moment he unleashed the magical energy onto the spikes. The effect was similar to that of a scimitar cutting through grass, cleanly severing all of the ascending spikes with unnatural ease, while the Prime stood there, looking mildly impressed with the feat, even as the duo came hurtling down at it, lances already poised to strike. To their surprise, the creature did nothing to protect itself, allowing the two lances to impale it at the shoulder blades.

Even so, however, nothing seemed to happen to the creature, despite at least one lance penetrating as deep as a human heart should be. Nonetheless, the Prime merely lifted its head to face Charlie and its orb eyes seemed to narrow in some sort of inhuman frown.

"_**Was that all?**_"

Before either Foster or Charlie comprehended what happened, spikes suddenly shot out form the Prime's shoulders, impaling both Imperial warriors in their left and right side, respectively. The impact was so sudden and brutal that both were launched right off their spears, ending up rolling in the dirt for a couple of meters upon landing. Even with the two Imperial lances still stuck in its shoulders, the Prime didn't seem fazed. What caught it mildly off guard, however, was Pike suddenly appearing before its person, before suddenly getting decked with a magically enhanced fist.

To Pike's relief, the impact managed to lift the Prime off its feet and into the mass of rushing Venati that kept diverging away from their small battlefield. From the sound of shouting and gunfire, the numbers of the horde were beginning to tax the defenders, but the lines were still holding.

Yet his relief lasted for all of one second, as four spikes headed his way, which he barely managed to deflect with magically enhanced hands before they managed to skewer him. Had his attack done nothing?! The answer, as he noticed when the Prime came back into view, was no.

Standing there without a seeming care in the world, the Prime merely walked right back to where it was, driving Pike back with the occasional barrage of spikes. Eventually, he realized that he'd been driven right back to where he'd started, with his spear next to him and his two fellow Lancers on the ground, groaning from their wounds.

Pike couldn't help the nervous chuckle that emanated from his throat. "I can't believe that Riddle idiot would sell out humanity for a little more power…" he observed to himself, though it appeared that the Prime heard him.

"_**Oho?**_" it sounded amused. "_**Whatever makes you think he knew he was allowing us to run rampant on his kind?**_"

Pike blinked. "Well…why else would he? It's not like he went into this deal blindly, right?" he asked, though he had a nasty feeling he was about to get contradicted. Behind him, both the Emperor and Ginny stiffened as they seemingly came to a realization before he did.

The Prime noticed, giving off what seemed to be a grin, from the way its mouth cavity seemed to twist. "_**Your companions seem to disagree**_," it observed amusedly. "_**But very well, we shall enlighten you. Riddle, like every other foolish prey we have met over countless millennia, was a mere tool for our arrival. He, like every other summoner, was a product of his own greed and blind ambition…willing to listen to any voice in the darkness that promised him power. It was almost **__**too**__** easy to convince him to let us through!**_"

The Prime roared with malevolent laughter as it reminisced. "_**Power unlimited! Rule over his kind! Immortality! With these words, we have tricked **__**millions**__** to do our bidding! To let us through and feast on their kindred! We are the perfect predators, and to us, all else is prey! Riddle was mere child's play!**_"

The Prime lifted its right arm to grotesquely point at Harry's prone form, where Ginny was still working feverously at his side to heal the critical wound. "_**That prey…he was more interesting than Riddle. Never have we ever encountered a hybrid…it is simply not possible. But once we absorb his genetic material, we will understand how it is possible, and we will see to it that this error is corrected! Then, once again, the Venati will remain pure and undiluted. We will not have our blood mixed with our prey! We are the top, and all else is but GRASS!**_" it roared, suddenly lashing out with its right arm, the thousands of spikes once again forming as they raced to skewer Harry.

This time, neither Pike nor the Emperor were ready to deal with the sudden attack, and were a second late in reacting to it. Ginny, for her part, was too busy trying to save her husband's life to redirect her attention in time, and so Harry was left wide open for the sudden sneak attack.

Just as it was about to hit, however, the spikes were once again stopped, much to the fury of the Prime, as it grew irritated at the constant interruptions. Unlike with the Emperor or Pike, however, the spikes were both cut down and held down as a figure raced around it and visibly tore the spikes off the limb, until all that remained were five, all of which were being physically held down by the figure now standing in front of Harry and Ginny. Two of the spikes the figure was actually _standing_ on, while two more were being held up by the figure's left hand, with the remaining spike in the right hand.

Having realized just how close to death she and Harry had come, Ginny lifted her head to see who had come to their rescue, and was surprise to see a black, ADST battle armour, along with chin-cropped red hair.

"Susan?" she asked, almost in a whisper. She hadn't considered the idea that her fellow redhead would be in any condition to keep fighting, not after Neville…

"**Hey, Gin**," replied the figure in front of her, though the voice seemed more like two people—one male, one female—talking at the same time. "**Seems like we've caught you in a bit of a tumble, eh?**"

Ginny blinked, recognizing the second voice imbedded in Susan's speech immediately. "_Neville?_" she asked hoarsely.

Susan finally turned her head at the question, and Ginny could actually see that Susan's brown eyes had changed. One looked lighter in shade than the other—which she was _certain_ wasn't that way before. More importantly, she now recognized that Susan's red hair had become a shade darker, with some strands of brown hair mingling in with her red hair.

"What…what happened to you two?" Ginny barely managed to croak out.

Though Susan seemed about to respond, it was the Prime who answered her query. "_**Fascinating…you have absorbed a hybrid into yourself, but kept the secondary personality alive**_," it observed, sounding more like a fascinated scientist than a monstrosity hell bent on consuming them. "_**You are more Venati than we had anticipated, if you would resort to such a move.**_"

Susan's head snapped back to glare at the Prime. "**Shut up!**" she growled, her voice still mingled with Neville's more masculine tone. "**Though we came together thanks to your genetic curse, we are nothing like you! I am still Susan! I am still Neville!**" she raged, exerting herself such that the final five spikes were torn off from the Prime's arm—those are her feet getting stomped out of existence. She then burst into a sprint towards the Prime, fists already raised to deliver a beating that would end its existence. "**And together, we're going to end your menace!**"

The Prime began laughing then, its right-hand once again splitting into hundreds of spikes that rushed to skewer the newcomer. Susan, however, agilely dodged each one, impressing the Prime as she neared him and finally landed a blow to its chest, forcing the Prime back, but otherwise doing very little harm to it.

"_**How admirable!**_" he mocked laughingly suddenly forming tens of spikes on its chest that very nearly tore apart the redhead's arm, had she not quickly retreated a few steps. "_**Come, prey! Show me what passes for skill in your misbegotten race!**_" it challenged as the spikes that reformed into its right arm suddenly sprang back into their hundreds and tried to skewer Susan as she ran sideways, trying to skirt the attack.

"Oi, don't go forgetting about me, moron!" Pike shouted as he descended on the Prime, his lance in hand. Lashing out, he managed to deal a blow to the Prime's left, blocky arm, which seemed to do jack all to the creature.

"_**One pest or two—do you truly think adding another insect will make a difference?!**_"

"Then how about we add a third and find out what that does?" proposed the Emperor as he finished gathering his magic within himself and manipulated his shadow into forming similar spikes to those the Prime was using. "_Kage Nui!_"

As the Emperor had done before, he used his techniques to stall the Prime's own attacks, this time by engaging them, spike for spike. Together, the hundreds of spikes—one made of chitin, the other of darkness—clashed over and over in the air, even as the Prime laughed at the futile display of defiance.

"_**FUTILE!**_"

The Emperor smirked. "We'll see about that!" he challenged, his dark eyes growing darker as five more spikes rose from his shadow and formed into a larger one, which he directly aimed for the Prime. As expected, the Prime merely formed a chitin-based shield in front of it that absorbed the impact.

"_**Fool! You thought—Hmm?!**_" it exclaimed suddenly as it noticed a shadow above it. Before it could react, Susan had reverse roundhouse kicked its head into the ground, battered further due to the insane amounts of magic she had concentrated into her foot.

"**Above!**" Susan shouted mid-swing.

"Below!" then came the follow up call from Nathaniel as he used the edge of his lance to pick up the fallen Prime's body and launched it in the air, inflicting a severe gash to its left shoulder.

"Everywhere," finished the Emperor, his spikes, now free from having to deflect the Prime's spikes, were quick to race towards their foe and severely impaled it all over its body while in the air, much as it had tried to do to Ginny and Harry twice before.

Unfortunately, all their efforts did was seemingly piss off the Prime, as it growled loudly and ripped out the shadow spikes from its body with very little show of pain. Once it had, it fell back to the ground and righted itself, the wounds still there, but obviously not very damaging, if its posturing was anything to go by.

"_**To think that such pests have done so much damage to a Prime!**_" it raged. "_**You are more tenacious than I gave you credit for, prey! But…**_" it then said, its body shaking and its orb-like eyes narrowing considerably.

"_**THIS ISN'T OVER!**_"

With a tremendous roar, it suddenly sprouted _thousands_ of spikes all over its body, each of them not racing for the human defenders, but rather towards its own kind, impaling thousands of the vicious predators without much afterthought. Then, to their horror, as they stood protectively around Ginny and Harry, they watched as the Prime absorbed the Venati simultaneously via the spikes themselves—with each absorption growing taller and more muscular in frame. Eventually, it was such that even their tallest—Nathaniel—merely reached the creature's knees.

"_**WITNESS THE INFINITE STRENGTH OF THE VENATI PRIME!**_" it raged triumphantly. "_**YOU ARE, ALL OF YOU, MERELY SUSTENANCE FOR OUR RACE! TO THINK THAT YOU WOULD RESIST OUR WILL THIS MUCH…WE WILL MAKE YOU REGRET YOUR IRRATIONAL ARROGANCE!**_"

The active fighters slid into their respective fighting stances as the Venati raged at them, ready to counter anything the Prime would throw their way. Unfortunately, they had not counted on the ground where the Prime stood to glow vivid red.

"What the hell is going on?" asked Pike, his spear ready to lash out, but lacking in target.

"**Magic transferral,**" Susan quickly deduced—or rather, Neville and Susan deduced. "**He's channelling his magic through his limbs and into the ground itself. Whatever's coming, it'll be big.**"

The Emperor took a similarly calm approach. "Can we stop it?" he asked solemnly.

Susan shrugged for both herself and Neville. "**We don't know**," the dual voices claimed. "**But if we have to guess…it would be possible, but with more firepower than we currently possess as a group.**"

"Damn…" growled Pike, his Valkyrie enhancements pulsating blue magical energy as a result of his growing irritation.

"Wait, firepower?" questioned Ginny, still by her husband's side, her hands glowing with magic as they poured quite a bit of it into Harry's still frame. "If it's just that, and it doesn't need to be magical, then I can provide it."

Susan turned to look down at Ginny, as did the Emperor and Pike. "Eh?" questioned Pike, confused. "You got a cannon under those robes or something, Red?"

Ginny smirked, momentarily halting the flow of magic through her right hand as she dug into her robes and quickly brought out a communication headset. "In a manner of speaking."

"A headset?" Pike still seemed confused. "Who could you possibly have a line to that would help in this situation?"

"**I see…good thinking, Ginny**," praised Susan, glancing to the side as Pike continued to look confused. "**Ginny is an Imperial Assassin. **_**The**_** Imperial Assassin, as it were. That headset is likely to have a direct line to General Sulu **_**and**_** Admiral Staples…correct?**" she directed her question to Ginny, who nodded, still holding the headset in her right hand.

"Got it in one," she confirmed, tossing the headset to Susan, who deftly caught in midair. "John and Tybalt have the frequency isolated, in order to immediately recognize any transmissions I make. You won't need identification codes."

Susan nodded, and quickly set about to recalibrating the headset while Ginny returned to her healing. While the Emperor seemed to accept the current line of events—thus returning to his vigil of the Prime's building spell—Pike kept his curious gaze on Ginny.

"What if the headset fell into enemy hands?" he asked.

Ginny kept her eyes on Harry as she replied. "The headset has two failsafe mechanisms in the event that it would fall into enemy hands. In the event that I die, a heartbeat monitor directly linked to me would inform it of my demise and it would self-destruct. In the event of an imminent capture, however, I can either manually or verbally give the self-destruct command." She then looked up briefly to smirk at Pike. "Of course, neither Sulu nor Staples are dumb enough to fall for false information, not when they've got thousands to corroborate it on the field."

Pike seemed about to argue when Susan broke into their conversation. "**It's done. Artillery support from the Navy and Field Artillery will commence shortly. Be ready for anything the Prime might do to retaliate,**" she informed the group, casually tossing the headset back to Ginny, who caught it with nary a glance. Susan glanced down at the still form of her friend. "**How is he?**"

Ginny sighed, still pouring considerable restorative magic into her husband. "No longer critical, but nowhere near where he needs to be to fight that thing," was her immediate response. "It's crazy, but it's like that Prime's attack screwed up whatever was keeping the Venati cells in him at bay. If I hadn't gotten to him when I did…" Ginny's teeth began to hurt as she ground them fiercely. "…there's no telling who might have been inhabiting this body."

To say that the others nearby were shocked would have been a massive understatement. Even Charlie and Foster, both of whom were lying mere feet away, had an ear towards the conversation, and were immediately stunned by Ginny's assessment.

"B…But Bill said…" Charlie immediately started protesting.

"I know what Bill said, Charlie," Ginny cut him off, her bloodied hands trembling slightly from the emotional rollercoaster she was on. "But face it, how many hybrids are there in existence? Hell, even _we_ don't count, and we've got Venati in us, too!" she reminded the Valkyrie patients in their midst. "Bill has a guess, and that's it. A hypothesis based on what little information he has…"

"**How do you know he's wrong?**" Susan asked immediately.

"I noticed it when I first started working on him," Ginny replied simply, meaning her husband's bloody form. "I remembered that Bill had mentioned that Harry's Venati cells had been stripped of sentiency, and had stabilized. He even told me how much of Harry had been changed by the Venati cells…about twenty five percent, by his count," she recalled. "But when I started working on him…" she drifted off then, as if fearing that her words would make the situation even worse.

"What happened, _Shishiko_?" asked the Emperor, eyes still on the Venati Prime, who was conveniently ignoring them, although the magical concentration on the ground was rapidly growing, much to his concern. Where was that artillery support?

"When I started working on him…" Ginny repeated, her head bowed. "…roughly thirty percent of his internal organs had been infected with the Venati cells."

Pike visibly stumbled at the revelation. "What?!"

"**It doesn't mean that the cells have regained sentiency…**" Susan posited, one eye still on the Prime, her stance ready to counter anything it threw at them.

"I've studied enough healing magic to recognize intelligent behaviour!" Ginny shot back. "The way the cells were advancing on Harry's native organs…it was deliberately planned. Liver, intestines, lungs, heart…it went straight for control over the most important organs. Cells by themselves don't have that sort of intelligence!" she insisted. "Bill was wrong! That…_monster_ is still inside my Harry!"

"_**Kukukukuku…**_"

The group turned their attention back to the Prime, whose laughter had caught their ears. The creature, noticeably more buffed than its previous version, seemed to be enjoying listening in on their little discussion, its attention obviously not on either the impending artillery barrage, nor the spell it was itself getting ready to cast.

"_**How amusing…**_" the Prime mused, its orb eyes looking down on them as though they were mere insects before his presence. "_**Though the female prey is correct. Did you all really think we had never met another species whose powers could stem the corruption? Did you honestly believe that you were special in some way? We have long since developed measures to erase such weakness from our race! You may contain the spread, but you will never be able to eradicate our influence!**_"

Susan, Pike, Charlie, Foster, and the Emperor didn't know what to say to that—the implications were too hideous to contemplate. Ginny, however, had no qualms in speaking her mind.

"So what?" she asked defiantly, a smirk on her face as she continued to work on Harry, whose complexion had become far healthier than it had been minutes ago. "Don't underestimate Harry, you monster! The man I married isn't so weak that he'd let some creature take over his body!"

The Prime burst into malevolent laughter at the show of defiance from the petite redhead. How amusing these prey were! How long had it been since the Venati had encountered such iron will? But even iron melts in the face of overwhelming heat.

"_**How admirable! Come then, humans! Show us the breadth of your will!**_" it taunted them, its massive right-hand claw motioning for them to come at it.

Ginny smirked. "As you wish."

And then the Prime saw nothing but light as shell after shell hit its gargantuan body, detonating on impact and tearing at its skin. It did not scream in pain, however—Primes had the good sense of adapting their bodies to have redundant nervous systems, so it was quite easy to ignore the multitude of nervous signals that were desperately trying to convey the message of pain to its brain.

That didn't mean it didn't recognize the amount of damage being inflicted on its body, however. Large chunks of its flesh were getting vaporized with every detonation, and it could tell that the only reason the human prey at its feet hadn't been consumed as well was thanks to the magical shield it was sensing. Unfortunately for the humans, they had never faced a Prime before, so they were absolutely ignorant as to its true capabilities. Thus, patiently, it waited for the barrage to end—which it soon did.

By that time, the Prime had taken enough explosives to level about four New York City blocks. Yet, to the utter bewilderment of the human defenders at its feet, on the Navy ships, and at the front lines, it was still standing—even as parts of its legs were seemingly carved out.

"_**Amusing…such devastating firepower…**_" it said amidst growling laughter. "_**Was this supposed to finish me off?**_"

"Impossible…" Pike breathed. "It did _nothing_?"

The Prime cackled malevolently. "_**Oh, it did harm us, prey, make no mistake about that,**_" it assured the humans, all the while regenerating the lost pieces of its flesh rapidly without any visible effort. "_**The question is not whether it harmed us or not, but rather how much, in comparison to our overall power.**_"

Slowly, it stretched out its right hand, the claws moving backwards and forwards agonizingly slow, as though it was testing its overall mobility and integrity. Nevermind that ten seconds ago, there had _been_ no hand.

"_**Impressive….**_" It praised, narrowing its orb eyes at the sight of its inflexible hand. Then, it shifted its gaze to the group of humans at its feet and growled, the right hand once again stretched out and pointed at them. "_**BUT NOT GOOD ENOUGH!**_"

Immediately, thousands of spikes burst from the Prime's hand's flesh, racing down to rain death on the human defenders, who simply poured as much magic as they could into their shield, successfully holding the spikes back, although at the cost of the shield contracting substantially from the amount of mass it was being forced to hold back.

And that's when they noticed that the Prime had lifted its massive, bludgeon-shaped left hand, ready to smash down on the shield with the force of an aircraft carrier.

"Damnit!" cursed Pike, his arms held out above his head, hands sprawled out as he poured every ounce of magic he had into the shield. "The shield's not going to be able to take something that huge!"

"I agree," concurred the Emperor, his own Dark magic making the shield possess a grey appearance. "Even at full power, the shield cannot sustain a direct impact of that magnitude."

"It won't need to," Ginny then said, surprising the group. Though her face was pretty much drenched in sweat, there was a deliriously happy grin on her face as she looked in front of them. That was when they noticed that Harry's body had vanished from her side.

Turning their heads back to face the Prime, they felt their hearts soar as they witnessed the back the of most powerful mage on the planet, standing tall, proud, and strong; his torn red coat billowing in the wind caused by the raging magical energies swirling around him furiously—a testament of his enormous power.

With a flick of an outstretched hand, the Prime's bludgeoning arm froze in place, and most of the spikes it had unleashed on the shield were torn to pieces—yet the Prime made no move to indicate any pain. Instead, both Harry and the Prime seemed to stare at each other, as if willing the other side to back down.

"_**Are you not afraid, prey?**_" the Prime finally asked, breaking the tense silence between the two. "_**Why do you not freeze up as you did before?**_"

Harry glared viciously up at the object of his rather rational phobia. He hated to be reminded of that moment of weakness. "Because my life is not the only one on the line anymore, _Prime_," he spat out the term as though it were the foulest curse. Powerful magic began to envelop his arms then, with electric jolts racing all around them. "Between losing my loved ones and fighting my fear, it is obvious which I will choose."

The Prime nodded its head several times, its orb eyes half-lidded in some sort of pensive motion. "_**We see…**_" it spoke serenely, as if agreeing with him tacitly. Then, however, its eyes snapped back wide and it threw the entirety of its body mass into a swing of its bludgeoning hand down on Harry. "_**PATHETIC!**_"

Only Harry had evaded the blow by jumping to the side, arms and legs now fully enveloped in the electric magic. "_Fulmini Vestigium_," he whispered, and the electrical magic seemed to vanish all of a sudden, having been instantly absorbed into his limbs. With a flash, he vanished just as ten spikes impaled the ground he had been on.

Before the Prime even had a chance to react, Harry was already on the Venati's right arm, having used the spikes as a bridge to get onto its gargantuan body. As he raced up the arm, he used his electrically charged arms to slash and cut at any exposed flesh in his path. So fast was he that he was able to literally circumvent the arm several times as he made his way towards the main body, leaving behind a spiral of destruction all over the Prime's right arm. By the time Harry jumped off the arm and went for the Prime's head, the right arm had begun to fall apart from the sheer destruction Harry had unleashed on it.

This time, the Prime did feel pain—something that it had not felt for quite some time. Yet, by using electrical energy, Harry had attacked the Prime's very own nervous system, completely overloading the redundant system's failsafes. For the first time since the fight had begun, the Prime let out of howl of pain as its right arm collapsed into a diced up mass of flesh.

Not that such an injury would deter it, as Harry well knew. Without looking he could already tell that the arm was regenerating, as it would until the Prime itself was dead. Still, it told his comrades that it _was _possible to hurt the creature.

As if on cue, he saw Ginny and Susan jump onto the Prime's left arm and start working on incurring as much damage on it as their magical cores allowed them. He had been slightly confused as to Susan's presence, but when his magical senses had returned to him, he had noticed the mixed magical core she now possessed and, through a few jumps in logic, finally understood what she and Neville had done. While he wasn't happy about it, he understood why the redhead had done it, and wasn't about to begrudge a decision he would have, in all likelihood, have taken himself in such a situation.

The Emperor and Nathaniel were not idle in taking advantage of their resurrected hero's leadership either. Smacking his hands together in prayer form, the Emperor's eyes scrunched into a fierce glare as he concentrated his mind fully on his spell, causing hundreds of spikes to rush into the air from his shadow. Taking advantage of these, Nathaniel quickly grabbed onto one and twisted himself in the air so as to land on top of one as they raced towards the Prime's head, where Harry was himself heading. Charlie and Foster, having both treated themselves as much as possible and then been on the receiving end of Ginny's rather effective medical magic, were quick to follow their friend's lead, grabbing a hold of new lances created by Charlie's transfiguration and also catching a ride on the Emperor's shadow spikes.

The coordinated strike would have, in any other situation, been merely brushed off by the Prime. However, between Harry's incredibly effective electric-based attacks and the amount of damage Susan and Ginny were doing on its left arm, couple with the incoming spike strikes from the Emperor and Nathaniel, Charlie, and Foster's own incoming attack, the Prime was beginning to grow anxious—a foreign feeling it hated.

Thus, in a move born out of desperation, it prepared to unleash one of its most devastating attacks—something that Harry caught onto immediately.

Snapping his head to his incoming comrades, he called out to them with incredible urgency. "FALL BACK!"

He might as well have frozen them, the power of his words affected them so. His tone had given no room for any disobedience whatsoever. Thus, instinctively, they all jumped backwards, back to where they had originally faced off with the Prime before launching their attack. Just in time, too, as spikes began to sprout _everywhere_ on the Prime's body, racing out until they each measure about five meters in length, and each very deadly to them.

Except, of course, to Harry, whose immediate shield had actually caused a few spikes to burst into pieces on contact—the shield having been the unmoveable object in this equation of "what happens when a stoppable force hits an immoveable object."

The Prime's eyes narrowed as they made direct contact with Harry's, which were equally narrowed into a glare. "_**You…are a pest.**_"

Harry grinned confidently. There was no good intent behind it. "I could say the same, _Prime_. What do you say you lie down and let me kill you, and we can all move on with our lives?" he suggested cheekily.

The Prime was unmoved. "_**Foolish prey…do you really think our death would solve anything?**_" it asked rhetorically, though the way Harry's expression seemed to say 'duh' made it narrow its eyes. "_**You do…HOW AMUSING!**_" it suddenly exclaimed, breaking out into evil laughter.

Harry felt a chill run down his spine—not unlike the one that he'd felt prior to getting stabbed. "Enlighten me, then," he demanded, ready to evade any surprise attacks the Prime might have been masking with his laughter.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on one's view of it—the Prime had no such intentions, merely attempting to bring its laughter back into control. When it did, the way its mouth twisted into a split smile sickened him.

"_**Allow us a guess…**_" it said, that sickening grin still on its face…thing. "_**You imagine us to be the **__**only**__** Prime?**_" the paling expression on Harry's face said enough, and the Prime burst out in malevolent laughter once more. "_**FOOL! There is no single, supreme Prime of the Venati! There is no leader amongst us! We Primes are nothing but the collective mass of **__**thousands**__** of our common brethren! Each world is assigned a Prime, not for leadership, but for support, in the even of an unexpected, powerful life form to stand against us!"**_

The Prime moved its head closer to Harry, its orb-like eyes staring straight into his own. "_**Did you really think it would be that easy to rid yourself of us? That you would need only kill a single Prime and we would forget about attacking this pathetic world?**_" it asked tauntingly, as it watched horror dawn on Harry's face. "_**Yes…that's right…you understand now…the Venati are not so few in number that we would avoid such a planet for the sake of one Prime…we are the Infinite Horde, prey…WE FEAR NO ONE!**_"

Harry simply floated there, held up in the air by his magic, stock still from the horror of such a revelation. What was going on? How could his calculations fail so much, over and over again? First was the existence of the Primes, now the true breadth of the Venati species was revealed to him, and his rational mind told him it was hopeless. His arms slowly began to fall from their blocking stance, and the Prime's malevolent grin seemed to widen with each millimetre they fell.

"_**Yes…that's it…**_" it purred hypnotically. "_**Accept your fate…embrace the finality of your death…**_"

And then, just like that, Harry felt one of the most painful slaps in his life hit him square in the left cheek.

"_**WHAT?!**_"

Dazed from the force of the slap, Harry had to regain his concentration to avoid falling to the earth. When he did, he realized that someone was clutching onto him—someone female. That was when he realized that the woman was both smaller than him and possessed red hair. That narrowed things down adequately.

"_Ginny?!_" he all but yelled in shock.

Said petite redhead looked up from her place at his chest, a fierce, reproachful glare on her face. _Never_, in all their time together, had Ginny ever looked at him that way. They had their spats, yes, and she did slap him sometimes, but only whenever tensions were running high—and they soon made up afterwards. Now, however, he knew he'd be in the doghouse for quite a while; she was _that_ pissed off.

"Who the hell are you and what have you done with my husband?" she hissed angrily, shocking him.

"Wha—Gin, I…"

"SHUT UP!" she yelled at him, letting go of him with her left hand and, with a closed fist, smashing it on his chest. It wasn't as hard, nor nearly as painful as when she'd slapped him, though.

"G-Gin?" he asked fearfully. What had gotten into her?

She stayed quiet for a second before speaking up again, her head buried in his uniform. "The man I married would never give up like this," she said clearly. Harry stiffened slightly as the words—and the feeling of moisture on his chest—hit him full force. "It's shameful…"

Harry was about to reply when he saw that the Prime was intent on taking advantage of this distraction to run them through with several spikes. With a fierce glare, Harry used his still active _Fulmini Vestigium_ to move out of the way. When they were, he looked down at her and saw that she hadn't moved from her position.

Harry sighed. "Did you _have_ to slap me that hard?" he asked, as though ignoring the rest of her comments. Ginny knew better, though. Her words had gotten through, and he was now acting this way to relieve the tension. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.

Fortunately, she was happy enough with having him back that it worked this time. "Idiot," she whispered into his chest. "…making me worried…idiot."

Harry laid a hand on her head and caressed it gently, enjoying the feeling of her silky hair on his palm. "Yeah, yeah…I'm an idiot. Forgive me?" he asked playfully, giving her a boyish grin, even as he kept one eye on the Prime, who was seemingly considering attacking the couple again.

"Idiot…" she said again, this time looking up with a teary smile. "Of course I do."

Harry grinned. "Great!" he gave her a soft kiss on the lips before moving towards the ground, dropping her off with the rest of the group, who had the decency to at least look away while the two shared their 'moment'. When they were over, however, he looked at each with a bashful look. "Sorry, guys…I almost lost it again just then…"

He needn't have worried, however. The Emperor merely closed his eyes and looked away, a serene look on his face, while Foster grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. Pike and Charlie both looked at each other and then conked him once on the head each and called him an idiot as well, before grinning and telling him it was fine. Susan, for her part, merely shrugged and smiled. She understood completely.

His head back on straight, Harry turned to face the Prime, Ginny still at his side and looking every bit as combat-ready as he was. "See, Prime?" he called up to the monstrous creature. "Even in the darkest moments, we pull ourselves right back up and keep fighting!"

The Prime's eyes narrowed. "_**And the untold billions that will follow?**_" it asked, growling dangerously.

Harry snarled right back. "_Don't_ fucking underestimate us, Prime!" he shot right back. "Ten thousand…ten million…ten billion…what the _hell_ do we care how many of you there are?!" he said defiantly. "We'll just kill you all! One by one if need be!"

The sound of blasts all around drove Harry to think of Sulu, Staples, and the men and women defending the front lines and Second Gate. Neither had fallen yet—a testament of their unfaltering courage and determination. Sulu would undoubtedly be fighting at the front lines by now, leading from the front as he always had throughout his military career. Staples, he knew, would have gotten sick of waiting for an opportunity for his ships to fire and have left skeleton crews to man the ships while he and the rest of the available manpower would move to help whichever emplacement needed help—that being the Second Gate. Magic-less though both men might be, they were ferocious in combat, and neither was going to go down to anything but the best. Sword and pistol in one case, and a giant warhammer in the other, the two very normal men would die before letting their assigned points go down.

The Prime scoffed. "_**Very well, then. We will drown you all in a sea of death, hunger, and despair!**_"

Whatever it was about to do, however, was quickly put to a stop when _something_ hit it directly in the face, went right through it, and ended up crashing into the ground behind it with the force of a meteorite.

As the Prime recovered from the impact, however, the group noticed that three more such objects crashed into the ground. Two of them near them, while the third hit the ground behind their own front lines. Immediately, the group recognized them as ADST drop pods, and as the hatches hissed before popping open, Harry grinned as he recognized the magical signatures in the two that fell near them.

"You're late," he called out, even as the dust was settling around the two pods.

"Sorry, sorry," a very familiar voice called back out. "Had a project on my hands…couldn't come any sooner. I daresay you'll _love_ what I did with it, though."

Ginny was the second in recognizing the incoming persons, mostly thanks to the voice. "Bill! Fleur!"

As she spoke, the two Imperial scientists moved out of the cloud of dust, Bill in the lead. The oldest Weasley child had his hands in his lab coat pockets and a cigarette hanging from his smiling mouth as he made his way to the group, not at all preoccupied by the gathering amount of dirt on his coat. Behind him, Fleur was patting off said dirt off of her own lab coat, but otherwise looking just as beautiful as usual.

* * *

As the duo neared them, Bill let out a muffled whistle as he gazed on the kneeling Venati Prime, getting his first good look of such a creature. "Damn…that's a big one."

Harry gave him a solemn nod. "It calls itself a Prime…it seems to be made up of thousands of Venati."

"Yikes," replied Bill, though he didn't seem particularly worried. "That could be trouble."

"It already is."

Bill then pointed to the sky. "Not with what we've decided to bring along with us."

Harry looked up and saw hundreds of dropships coming down from the combined allied fleet towards the front lines and the Second Gate. What was hanging from a few of them had Harry widen his eyes in surprise.

"Tanks?" he asked in surprise. "ATAVs? Where the hell did you pull them out of? I thought our reserves were depleted after that MS 5!"

Bill grinned. "I figured it'd be a bad idea to concentrate everything we had in one place, so I had the Japanese bring a few hundred in reserve."

Harry glanced at the Emperor. "You didn't say anything about that," he stated evenly.

The Emperor shrugged. "You did not ask."

Immediately, they heard blasts sound out from the front line, and they knew that the first of the deployed vehicles had gone into action. Bill grinned at his brother-in-law. "So, given that Sulu and Staples have their new toys to help them out, what say we finish this big guy and go home?" he suggested.

Harry laughed and smashed his fists together with a predatory grin as he moved forward, ready to start the fight again—the Prime's face having regenerated sufficiently by now. "Sounds perfect!"

With Bill and the others behind him, Harry moved with blinding speed back onto the lowered right arm of the Prime, whose senses were still coming back. With Bill close behind, Harry and he ran along the length of the Prime's arm, circumventing it entirely in a double-helix pattern as they laid waste to its flesh—similar to what he'd single-handedly done previously.

With a glance to the left, they saw that Susan, Ginny, and Fleur had similarly begun their own attack on the left arm, with the Emperor, Nathaniel, Charlie, and Foster bringing up the middle with a retry of their former collaborative attack, with the latter three pretty much surfing their way up to the Prime's face via the Emperor's hundreds of shadow spikes, occasionally jumping from one to the other as the Prime slowly reacted to the threat and blocked one of the spikes with one of its own. It was all for naught, however, as the three groups successfully made their way up to the Venati's still-reconstructing face and launched their combined attacks on it.

Charging his right hand with magical energy, Harry transformed it into its bladed form and, combining it with the electrical energy, drove it right between the Prime's eyes. Bill, choosing to do something with more of an area-effect, drew both his hands from his pockets and, forming two orbs of concentrated _Reductor_ magic and, one by one, flung them straight at the Prime's face, deliberately aiming away from Harry's point of attack. Susan, Fleur, and Ginny, combining their attacks, avoided the men's blows and criss-crossed all over the Prime's face, cutting deeply into it with either steel or magically-infused hands. Then, when the Emperor's spikes reached their target, Pike, Charlie, and Foster all jumped forward and plunged their lances into the Prime's right eye, while the Emperor's spikes took care of the left.

All in all, the combined attacks served to deprive the Prime of both eyes, both arms, and severely damaged its head, causing it to howl in pain as dark, ooze-like substance bled through the wounds—something that had not occurred until now.

"We're hurting it!" Harry called out. "Keep at it!"

"_**PESTS! INSECTS! I WILL DEVOUR YOU ALL!**_" the Prime roared, blind in its rage as it swung its body left and right in an attempt to dislodge the attackers from its body. Of the group, only Foster had to be grabbed by Charlie in order to avoid falling off—the rest simply either used their magic to ground themselves, or kept going with his attacks (in the Emperor's case).

None of them were blind to the fact that the Prime's skin seemed to ripple, a seeming indication of a counterattack about to happen. "Everyone!" Harry called out urgently. "Incoming!"

Just as the word was given, however, hundreds of thousands of spikes burst out from the Prime's skin, nearly impaling the group as they worked feverishly to avoid them. Nonetheless, the attack was so widespread that they eventually disengaged and fell back to the ground before being caught by the Emperor's spikes and brought to their initial position safely.

From there, they watched as the Prime roared in agony, its limbs regenerating surprisingly slowly. Perhaps they had overtaxed its regenerative abilities? If so, then they had no more time to waste. About to move forward to continue, they were halted only when the Prime began to cackle madly.

"_**FOOLS! IGNORANT WORMS!**_" it roared. "_**YOU THINK YOU'VE WON?! THAT WE HAVE BEEN BEATEN?! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!**_" it laughed. "_**THINK AGAIN! EVEN IF WE CANNOT CONSUME YOU HERE, WE WILL STILL EXTERMINATE YOUR PATHETIC RACE! WE HAVE SEEN TO IT!**_"

"It's bluffing!" Pike retorted immediately, eager to jump back into the fray.

Harry, however, was of a different mind, and so was Bill. "Why would he?" he asked. "He has nothing to gain by saying that. He knows by now that our will won't be broken," he observed, with Bill nodding at his side, his chin cupped pensively.

"Did the Prime do anything prior to our arrival?" the redhead asked. "Anything out of the ordinary?"

"You mean, _besides_ trying to kill all life on the planet, starting with us?" snarked Charlie, only to receive a reproachful smack on the back of his head from Foster.

Bill sighed. "Yes, besides the homicidal impulses."

Susan was the one who answered him. "**It poured a lot of magic into the ground**," she replied, startling Bill with her new voice.

Bill quickly recovered, however, and quickly made the logical deduction that led to his understanding of her situation. Determined to examine her at a later date, he nonetheless digressed back to the issue at hand. "How so?" he asked.

"It just stood there for a bit and poured massive amounts of magic into the ground," Ginny explained. "It had a _lot_ of openings to kill us at that point, but it didn't. It just stood there and used its legs as conductors while it fed the ground with magic. It's odd, though. I can't sense any of it anymore."

Narrowing his eyes, Bill exchanged a look with Harry and both men nodded. Quickly, they closed their eyes and reached out with their magical senses, and visibly paled seconds later.

"FUCK!" Harry shouted first, one hand coming to cover his face as the full horror of the situation impacted him. "That…that genocidal…_FUCK!_"

Bill was far more conservative in his reaction. He glared viciously at the Prime. "I see…so if we kill you, that means we're too much of a threat to allow to live, is that it?" he asked the Prime, whose laughter was his only response. "You sick freak…"

"_**YOU SEE, PREY?! THE VENATI ARE FOREVER VICTORIOUS!**_" it said amidst its laughter.

"What? What the hell's going on?" demanded Pike.

Bill gritted his teeth. "What the Prime did was unleash a massive amount of magic into the Earth's very crust. It's racing down to the core, where it will undoubtedly create a chain reaction that will cause it to expand exponentially in a relatively short amount of time."

"What?!" shrieked Ginny. "Why the hell would it do that? Didn't it say that it was fine to sacrifice millions of Venati for the sake of consuming us?!"

Bill only released his teeth from their gritted state in order to put a cigarette between them. "Anyone else, sure…but we're apparently too much of a threat. If we can take down a Prime, it means we actually stand a chance against them. Thus, we have to be exterminated. He must really be on the ropes if he's using that as his main weapon, though."

"Is there anyway to stop the attack?!" demanded Foster, who was sweating bullets at the revelation.

Bill lowered his head, and Harry once again shouted, "FUCK!"

"Not with our power," Bill told them. "Independently, none of us has the power necessary to go as deep as the magic already is, and it's getting deeper with every second. If we did, we could theoretically stop it with a strong enough barrier spell…but as it is, it's just not feasible…"

"**What about if one of us absorbs someone else?**" asked Susan suddenly, shocking the group.

"_What?!_" demanded Harry, stomping up to her and getting in her face. "Are you _insane_?!"

Susan's look was completely deadpan. "**Are you? Did you forget, Harry, that we are on the verge of extinction? If there's a method to save us, then shouldn't we logically go for it?**"

"It…could work," Bill said, mumbling excitedly as he cupped his chin. "It would have to be someone of extraordinary power on both sides of the equation, though…and even then, there's no guarantee…"

"Bill!" Harry reacted with shock. "You're agreeing with this?!"

"Do we have a choice?" asked Bill. "I know you don't want to use the Venati genes anymore than you have to, but this is a cataclysmic emergency, Harry."

"What about the person we sacrifice?" asked Pike. "Would it be like with Susan and Neville, or…?"

Susan shook her head. "**We have thought about this. In our case, Susan halted the absorption short of consuming all of Neville's magic and soul, keeping the sentience alive. In the case of Harry, however, he would need to absorb **_**everything**_**. Not a shred of that person's existence will remain.**"

"Damn," whispered Pike.

After a moment of silence, Pike spoke up again. "So…who wants the job?" he asked weakly, a sickly smile on his face.

"None of us are powerful enough for this," Bill stated outright. "Since Harry is the only hybrid with the basic power to fulfil one side of the equation, we need someone just as powerful on the other side, and—no offense to you, your Imperial Majesty—no one here has that kind of raw power."

"What about me?"

The group turned to see someone coming out from underneath the Prime, startling both them and the Prime itself, whose stance shifted to squish the person. Said person, however, reacted quickly enough to avoid getting stomped, and quickly made their way to the group.

The reactions were varied. Bill and Fleur sighed and looked away; Harry's eyes narrowed in recognition and rage; Ginny, Charlie, and Foster looked surprise; the Emperor didn't seem to care; and Pike was just confused.

"What the…" he started. "Aren't you that guy…what's the name…Dumbledore?"

Standing before them, looking surprisingly spry for his old age, was indeed the last of the Hogwarts Headmasters, Albus Dumbledore, having just recovered from the traumatic process of becoming a Human-Venati hybrid.

"You took your sweet time," Bill noted. "We dropped at the same time—what took so damn long?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "I'm old, I've just been operated on, and my pod fell into a crater. Take your pick," he deadpanned. "Now then, I believe we have more pressing issues at hand?"

"_**ANOTHER PEST?!**_" the Prime roared, still bleeding heavily and painfully incapacitated. "_**BAH! YOU ARE ALL TOO LATE!**_"

"What are you doing here, Dumbledore?" hissed Harry.

"I'm here to help," the aged mage replied simply. "I, like you, have taken in a Venati into myself."

Harry's eyes boggled. "You did _WHAT?!_"

"I put one in him, though it's not stable like yours," Bill confirmed. "He asked for it. Literally."

"Why on earth would _anyone_ do such a thing _willingly_?!" demanded Harry.

Dumbledore smiled. "Like I said: I'm old. While my magic may not have dwindled since my halcyon days, I daresay my body is not quite as ageless. If by taking this deadly poison I can help our race survive, then I shall gladly do so," he stated seriously before bringing up a hand and poking Harry in the chest once and keeping his finger there. "You need power. I have it. Use me as the sacrifice."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "What about that crap about mages having to live separately?" he demanded.

Dumbledore shrugged. "A conflict of ideology. One which your Empire won, and one which I have conceded," he replied logically. "Now then, we're wasting time. Are there any more questions, or can we get on with this before my new tenant decides to take me over once and for all?"

The Prime, having heard their plan, and realizing the depths of the new arrival's power, was quick to react to this. "_**NO! YOU WILL NOT RUIN OUR PLANS ONCE AGAIN!**_" it raged.

The entire group turned to glare up at the Prime.

"Shut it, _monster_," snapped Harry before turning his attention back to Dumbledore. After a moment of silence, he offered his left hand in a gesture of rapprochement. "I underestimated you. You have my respect for this, Dumbledore."

"Does that mean I am forgiven?" asked Dumbledore cautiously as he took the hand.

Harry's grip tightened, as did his glare. "Don't push it, old man," he warned. "Your crimes are still crimes, and were you not about to sacrifice your life for the greater good, I'd have you hanging from a rope the moment this was all over. As it is, however, I am willing to offer you my respect."

Dumbledore considered this a moment before nodding and shaking the hand once. "Good enough," he stated with finality.

"_**NO! NOT AGAIN! I WILL NOT ALLOW THIS!**_"

Harry sighed, rubbing his forehead. "That guy's seriously giving me a headache…let's get this over with and then we'll kill him."

Dumbledore chuckled. "I agree," he said.

Harry turned to Susan at this point. "How does the absorption work?" he asked.

Susan looked at Dumbledore once before looking back at Harry. "**You'll need to morph your arm into a spike,**" she explained, and watched as he did so. "**Aim for the heart. Then, on impaling, focus your mind as though you were performing a spell and order the limb to absorb. It's fairly straightforward—even instinctual. It was for us, anyway.**"

Silently nodding, Harry took a step back from Dumbledore and raised his morphed arm, aiming the edge right for Dumbledore's heart. "Any last words, old man?" he asked seriously.

Dumbledore contemplated that for a moment before nodding. "A few, for Miss Granger," he stated. At Harry's nod, he continued. "Please tell her that I've never been prouder of a student as I was with her. She was a magnificent student, and a wonderful person to chat with. Please…let her know that I leave what dreams I have left in her hands."

Harry gave a solemn nod. "I will," he affirmed. "Goodbye, Dumbledore."

With that, he thrust his arm forward, only to have it deflected at the last second by Dumbledore himself, causing him to get pulled aside, just as thousands of spikes hit where they had been standing a moment earlier.

"What the?" shouted Pike, just as a spike hit him in the shoulder and he went down crying out in agony.

Similarly, Ginny had her left forearm torn off by a similar projectile, and Bill and Fleur were only able to save the Duchess by a hasty shield, which protected them and her from the barrage, but only barely. Charlie, for his part, erected a similar shield above himself and Foster and Pike, who had been dragged underneath it by the female Lancer. The Emperor, for his part, made good use of his shadows and put up a shield above himself and Susan.

Harry was stupefied. What the hell had happened?! Looking up, he saw that the Prime had seemingly decided to speed up its optic regeneration by combining both eyes into a single cyclopean eye. While it was obvious that the Prime's optic capacity was not at 100%, it could still see well enough to distinguish where the group was standing, and had acted accordingly.

"_**YOU WILL NOT INTERFERE WITH THE VENATI ANY FURTHER, PREY!**_" the Prime roared. "_**I WILL SEE THIS ENTIRE, PATHETIC PLANET DISAPPEAR! STARTING WITH YOU!**_"

At this point, the Prime curled its mouth into an O shape and the magically sensitive persons within the group of human defenders at its feet quickly recognized the massive magical build-up happening at its mouth.

"Holy _crap_, that's a lot of magic," breathed Bill as he held Ginny while Fleur performed some immediate first aid magic on the redhead's injured arm.

While the others were of a similar mindset, Dumbledore had narrowed his eyes, and for the first time in quite some time, his aged mind raced through thousands of possibilities, squeezing every ounce of his reputed genius into finding a solution to the problem at hand. In the end, he had his answer—and a damn convenient one, to boot.

As Harry moved to get up and stop the Prime, Dumbledore acted quickly and grabbed the raven-haired man's arm. "Let me take care of this," he asserted. "I've got a plan. Be ready."

Harry looked doubtful for a moment, but relented upon seeing the determined look on Dumbledore's aged face. It was the look of someone who knew what he was doing. Whatever his wrathful feelings for the man, he had to trust him to genuinely want to redeem himself.

"Go for it," he replied simply, lowering his arm.

Dumbledore nodded thankfully, and got to his own feet, before rushing to where he calculated the point of impact to be and stood there, a defiant glare on his face. Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for what was to come.

"COME, PRIME!" he shouted. "I AM ALBUS DUMBLEDORE, LAST OF THE HOGWARTS HEADMASTERS! SHOW ME THE POWER OF YOUR MALEVOLENT SPECIES!"

The Prime's cyclopean eye seemed to widen in fury at the old man's defiant assertion. To that end, it resolved to kill the insolent human first, and aptly changed the direction of its blast. Then, with a deep breath, it unleashed a massive burst of magical energy at Dumbledore, who waited for it to come near to engulfing him before he gave a wild grin, the likes of which he had not given since his youth.

"This…is what I've been waiting for!" he roared, instantly transforming his arms into spikes and thrusting them _into_ the blast. At the same time, he formed spikes from every inch of his body and similarly thrust them into the beam of energy, without any seeming care for his own welfare.

To everyone's amazement, the blast stopped right at the point of impact with the spikes, and seemed to go no further. Only Harry and Susan immediately realized why—the crazy old man was _absorbing_ the attack!

"That…suicidal…" Harry breathed, an incredulous grin on his face. "GENIUS!"

"**I can't believe it…**" Susan breathed.

Dumbledore, for his part, turned his head slowly so as to make eye contact with Harry. "POTTER! _**NOW!!!!!!!!**_"

Shifting his arm back into its spike form, Harry grinned expectantly. "You got it!" he shouted back, "Let's do it…DUMBLEDORE!"

With that, he thrust his arm forward, elongating the spike such that it raced straight for Dumbledore's back, even as the incredible amount of magic Dumbledore was absorbing threatened to make the old man's magical core overload. With the nasty sound of flesh getting torn into, the spike impaled Dumbledore's heart, but the man did not die from shock. Instead, Dumbledore seemed to merely grin wider, his plan reaching its successful conclusion.

"To think…that I would be fighting on the grounds of my school…for the future of humanity…" he mumbled in between gasps of pain as the absorption process began, before throwing back his head and shouting, "I AM GRATEFUL FOR THE EVENTS THAT BROUGHT TO THIS BATTLEFIELD!"

With that, Dumbledore seemingly disappeared as he was absorbed into Harry's spike, the rest of the Prime's energy beam similarly disappearing into the spike as the last of the attack was absorbed.

The Prime, for its part, felt, for the first time in its existence, fear. Sheer, primal fear. What was the matter with these prey? Why did they not react with the usual fear and resignation? Where were they getting the intelligence, resourcefulness, and determination to ruin their plans this much? Were all humans this dangerous?

Harry, for his part, was feeling agonizing pain as the entirety of Dumbledore's magic and the Prime's attack were added to his own magical core, which was working overtime to keep itself from bursting from the insane amounts of magical power that it now housed.

Bill, being the doctor/scientist he was, recognized the symptoms immediately. "Damnit!" he cursed. "Magical core overload! HARRY! USE IT UP!"

Through the pain, Harry quickly moved to do as told, and, holding out his right hand, palm up, he proceeded to gather as much magical energy as he needed to in it. The resulting shape was an orb that increased in size exponentially with every passing second.

"_RAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!_" he screamed as he poured considerable magic into the sphere, until it was the size of three tanks stacked on top of each other.

Once at that size, Harry felt it easier to breathe, and he knew he had reached the point where he had extracted the excess magic. The rest—in all of it considerable glory—would serve to expand his natural magical capacity fourfold.

Breathing heavily, he bent over to catch his breath, the massive magical orb still spinning wildly in his outstretched hand. The exhaustion was quickly pushed aside, however, as adrenaline flooded his system and he decided to put an end to this battle.

"_**IMPOSSIBLE!**_" the Prime cried out in horror, realizing the lethal magnitude of the attack Harry had in his hand. One hit from that at the right place, and its existence would be exterminated.

"Didn't I say it before?" Harry asked between gasping breaths. "Don't _fucking_ underestimate us! We humans? We _hate_ losing. What's more, we _hate_ the idea of some twisted _fuck_ coming in and killing our loved ones. To that end, we're willing to lay down our _lives_ to protect those precious to us. Even then, if we fall, our hopes will be inherited by our children, and their children after that. The hopes of the past…the dreams of the future…_that's_ what makes us so mighty!" Harry ranted, grabbing his right wrist with his left hand, now transformed back into its human state. "You told us to witness the depths of our ignorance, right? Well…_WITNESS YOURS_!"

Activating _Fulmini Vestigium_ one last time, Harry launched himself up to the Prime's head. He would have gone for the heart, but then he realized that since the regenerative process was controlled by the brain, it would be much more fatal to take that out instead. Unfortunately for the Prime, that was _exactly_ what its weak point was.

Limbless as it was, the Prime could only stare in impotent fury as the prey it had relished so much in taunting and spiritually crushing raced up to put an end to its existence. Its only comfort was that the world destroyer spell it had cast would not be stopped by this insect, no matter how powerful it was. Even if it did, the Venati horde would merely seek out another way into this dimension, and then consume it as was their right.

With simultaneous yells—one of vindictive rage and the other of defiant acceptance of death—the two mortal enemies met one last time as Harry's orb of magical energy crashed into the Prime's cyclopean eye, the swirling magical energy drilling into the head and severing the tiniest, cellular links with the intensity of its attack. There would be no regenerating from this blow. There would be no coming back for the Prime.

"_**We…will…return…**_" the Prime weakly said as a last act of defiance, even as its head was vaporized from the attack.

Falling back to the ground, his last attack finally done, Harry gave a defiant scoff and glare, watching the Prime's body fall backwards in the process. "We'll be waiting, and we'll win again."

A shadow tentacle suddenly grabbed him out of the air, halting his freefall towards the ground. Arching his neck back, he gave the Emperor a grateful look as the Japanese man brought him safely back to the group. The man gave Harry a congratulatory nod, but said nothing else; the thrill of victory had not yet set in, but he could already sense that the summoning portals were vanishing.

His other companions, however, were not so reserved. Pike, despite being wounded, jumped in the air and gave a whoop as he celebrated their victory. Foster and Charlie gave each other a bear hug, before beating Pike within an inch of his life when he made catcalls at them. Bill was trying to light a cigarette, but his hands wouldn't stop shaking, much to his irritation, so Fleur did it for him, but not before taking the cigarette from him, taking a deep drag, blowing the smoke out, kissing him square on the lips, and then handing it back, before collapsing in an exhausted heap—in that order. To say the least, Bill was looking down at his assistant bewilderedly. Standing next to the Emperor, Susan looked at the bourgeoning couple with an exasperated shake of her head.

Ginny, for her part, slowly made her way towards Harry, her wounded arm bandaged up and no longer bleeding, though no less of a stump after the elbow. Collapsing to her knees next to his lying form, she gave him a weak, yet proud grin. "You did it."

Harry laughed. "We did, didn't we?"

Ginny giggled and leaned over to give him a gentle, but no less passionate kiss, which he fully enjoyed—right up to the point where the Emperor intervened by coughing, at which point Harry began to wonder whether or not he _could_ get away with glassing Japan.

"Not wanting to put a damper on our much-deserved celebrations, but…" the man started, pointing at their surroundings, which were still quite full of Venati. "We still have company, and unless we move quickly, that spell is _still_ going to vaporize our planet."

Harry glanced around to confirm the Emperor's observations, and sighed in exasperation as he found the man correct. Hopefully, with their new shiny armaments to help them, the Imperial Army would be able to kill off the Venati still left, but the world-ending spell headed for the Earth's core really couldn't wait. Not to mention, without the Prime, the common Venati had returned to their feral, yet still intelligent state. They would no longer be ignoring the group in their midst.

Sighing, Harry pushed himself back onto his feet, before helping Ginny to hers. Holding her close, he looked down at her eyes, then at her stump, then back at her eyes. "Will you be okay?" he asked her sincerely.

Ginny smiled. "Don't underestimate an Imperial Assassin, dear."

Harry grinned, giving her a peck on the cheek. "Excellent. Mind doing some crowd control while I save the world?"

Ginny grinned right back. "You owe me, Mister Potter."

"I look forward to paying it back in full, _Mrs_ Potter," he replied right back, before glancing over at the Emperor with an unsaid plea in his eyes. The man nodded right back, understanding the Duke's request for him to look out for his injured wife.

She promptly smacked him on the shoulder with her one good arm. "I saw that."

He grinned charmingly at her. "Can't blame a bloke for worrying over his wife, love."

She smiled at him before walking away from him and glaring at the group. "Alright, then. The Prime's gone, but we've still got a job to do here! Harry's going to need some time to deal with the big spell of doom that the bastard left us, so make sure to keep this area clear of interference!"

Each of the group nodded, understanding fully the importance of their assignment. As they moved to form a protective circle around him, Harry sighed, stretching out his neck and popping his finger joints. It would take some time for him to get used to the overwhelming amount of magic in him, but for now, he had a job to do.

He sighed once more. After this, the war would be, at long last, finally over.

Falling to one knee, he brought up one hand and prepared to use it as the conductor of his barrier spell. Magical energy swirled around it as his hand shifted into a blade form, which could give him better access into the ground. He glanced around one last time, and smiled wearily.

"Well, back to work."

* * *

_Post-AN: *weeps* It's DONE! After...3 years, 2 months, and 15 days of writing this series, it's finally DONE!_

_Wait...wait...no...epilogue's not up yet...*cries*_

_Anyway, that doesn't count. That'll be up in its own time. And, as a result of the fact that it needs to wrap things up tidily, I ask you, the readers, to inform me which loose ends you might be interested in knowing about. Casualty rates, "where they are now"'s, etc...Leave a review as to what you'd like to know, post-Battle of Hogwarts, and I'll try to incorporate it into the epilogue (WHICH WILL NOT BE AS LONG AS THIS CHAPTER)._

_Anywho, for the more controversial point of this chapter:_

_Susan/Neville: As far as I know, only one other HP-fanfic has incorporated the idea of a fusion between two of the HPverse characters, and that one involved Harry and Ginny fusing into some sort of hermaphrodite being with a third consciousness born out of their combination called Harverna...or something. Just to be clear...that is so not what happened here. Susan and Neville have merged purely on a magical core/brain function level, not on the physical--with the only exception to that being the pigmentation of the eyes and hair. In terms of reproduction organs, the merger between the two has not affected Susan's own biological composition, though it has killed off her sex drive. To be clear, what differentiates the Susan/Neville merger and the one between Dumbledore and Harry is that Harry did not merge with anyone--he absorbed Dumbledore. Dumbledore, for all intents and purposes, is dead. His magical core was completely incorporated into Harry's, and all his flesh and bones do to Harry is harden it against physical assault. It does not mean that Harry will be growing another set of testicles, nor another penis. For that matter, that will not be happening with Susan, either. She's just...a woman who has a voice in her head, and when she speaks, it kinda sounds like two people talking at once (anywhere else, that's just the definition of a crazy person)._

_Finally, I want to thank everyone who participated in the poll. Emperor it is._

_So yeah. Story's done._

_Cheers,_

_Marquis Black_

_(REVIEW D: )  
_


End file.
